


We All Have Our Demons

by sammysshampoo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Wincest - Freeform, protective!Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:22:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammysshampoo/pseuds/sammysshampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam and Dean follow a hunt down to Stanford, Sam is alarmed to discover that someone he thought he'd left behind a long time ago is still there... and very, very upset with him. Contains Wincest.</p><p> </p><p>In this series, Sam and Dean have already begun to express their feelings for each other, so the relationship is familiar but still fairly new. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back to Somewhere Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fanfic for anything, ever, so I'm sorry if it's not as fantastic as I'd like it to be! But I will do my best, and when I finally figure out how to get to the end of it, I hope you're still around to see how it ends. Thanks for reading!

“Got our next case.” Dean dropped a folded newspaper in front of Sam and leaned on the table, palms flat. His mouth twitched, almost a grimace, but he covered it with a crooked smile, clearing his throat. “You’ll like it. We’re heading to Stanford.” Sam picked up the paper and skimmed it, glancing up at Dean disbelievingly.

“No way.”

“Way. Check it out. Two murders. Victims were found outside their dorms, both with their hearts missing and their chest torn open. Sounds like our kind of gig to me.”

Sam stood up, scooping up the paper and slinging his jacket over his shoulder. “Well, thank God. I was getting sick of scouring the papers. Let’s go.” The light clicked off behind them, cloaking the room in darkness before the door shut and they left the motel.

 

The ride to the college was a quiet one. Sam glanced sideways at Dean, his eyebrows furrowed, concerned at the silence. “So, Sam,” Dean said suddenly. “How are you feeling?” Sam tightened his jaw and stared straight ahead, exhaling shortly through his nose.

“Fine.”

Dean glanced at him. “You sure about that? Anything you want to talk about? Nothing happening?”

Sam’s jaw twitched and he looked out the window. “No, Dean.”

“Really.”

“Really.”

Dean stared at the road, his features hardened. Without warning, he put his foot to the brake and pulled the Impala off to the side of the road, putting it in park. Sam looked up at Dean’s face, still staring straight ahead.

“I don’t get you, Sam.” Sam recoiled, frowning defensively.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, I don’t understand why you won’t let me in,” Dean snapped, turning his head to glare at him, one hand still clutching the wheel. Sam opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. “Are you masochistic or something? Do you enjoy torturing yourself?” Sam set his jaw and turned away from Dean, not replying. The hard look dropped from Dean’s face and his hand twisted on the wheel in distress. “Look, Sam, I just…” His voice faltered and he exhaled, frustrated. “I can help you, Sammy. You can talk to me.” He cleared his throat. “I know you’re still seeing Lucifer. I know you’re trying to be strong and hide it from me. But, Sam…” He stopped and swallowed, wringing his hands on the wheel of the Impala. “Just because you let me help you doesn’t mean you aren’t still strong.” His voice was soft. Sam could feel his eyes on him and forced himself to stare straight forward. “Let me help you, Sam. It’s okay to let me in sometimes.”

Sam turned and looked at him, clenching and unclenching his jaw, still not speaking. “No.” His tone was hard, and somewhere deep in his mind he swore he could hear Lucifer’s sadistic snigger. “I don’t need your help, okay? It’s under control.” In the shadows on his lap, he subconsciously pressed his finger onto the long curving scar carved on the palm of his hand, silencing the voice in his head. “If you really want to know, Dean, then the answer is yes, I still see Lucifer.” His voice cracked and he pressed the scar harder. “I just have it under control. It’s okay. I—” He stopped, his words catching in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. There was a pause. Dean shifted, mentally battling himself, then, with a loud exhale, turned and dropped his hand from the wheel. Without warning he leaned forward and seized Sam’s face, pulling him forward so their lips collided, holding the back of his head and kissing him hard before he let go. Sam’s lips parted in shock, and Dean’s eyes searched his before he turned away, swallowing hard, his skin flushing a bright, embarrassed crimson. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Sam looked down, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to Dean’s, one hand sliding to the back of his neck and remaining there even after he pulled away. He gazed into Dean’s bright green eyes. “Don’t be.”

 

 

***

 

They arrived at Stanford early, when the sun was just starting to show its face over the horizon. They parked at a nearby motel and stopped to rent a room at the motel. The checkout lady smiled kindly at them. “Two singles or one king, sir?” Dean glanced at Sam and cleared his throat.

“A king would be great, miss, thank you.” Sam didn’t even blink, but his heart gave a little jump. They took their key and walked to their room, clicking on the light and gazing upon the unfamiliar king-sized bed in the middle of the room, draped with deep navy covers. Dean closed the door with a quiet click and came up behind Sam, slipping his arms around his middle. “We don’t have to check into the case just yet. It’s barely morning,” he murmured, speaking with his lips against the skin of Sam’s neck. Sam shivered and turned to face him.

“I guess it could wait,” he whispered, gazing down at him. Dean moved forward and kissed him deeply, his hands twisting into Sam’s long hair and pressing him closer. He pulled back for just a moment, looking at him, and with a gentle shove had him pushed over onto the bed. He pressed his lips to his again, positioning himself over Sam and holding himself up with his hands and knees, completely focused on Sam’s lips and nothing else. Sam ran his fingers over Dean’s short hair, gripping his waist with his other hand. After a good ten minutes he gently pushed him off. “Enough,” he said, not unkindly. “We should get working on the case.” Dean nodded reluctantly, straightening his shirt. Sam ruffled his floppy hair, running a hand through it so it was gently tousled, then pulled on his jacket. Dean did the same, and they left, driving towards the college.

 

***

 

“Sam?” Sam turned, only to be tackled with a surprise hug. “I can’t believe it!”

“Hey, Beth,” Sam greeted, smiling good-naturedly at his old friend. Her curls bounced when she pulled away, grinning. “Been awhile, huh?”

“You bet!” Beth agreed enthusiastically. “I’ve missed you a lot! Where have you been?”

“Road trip with Dean here,” Sam replied, clapping Dean on the shoulder. “It’s been great. We’re just here for some business, unfortunately.” Beth’s face fell.

“Aw. I was hoping you were coming back. We really miss you here.” She sighed and shook her head, opening her mouth to continue. She was cut off by another voice.

“Beth, where the hell have you been?” The voice was male, and it sounded angry. “We need to finish our project! It’s due in two days!”

“Sorry, sorry, I know,” Beth sighed, rolling her eyes and turning to face the newcomer. Sam turned to put a face to the voice and paled, recognizing him immediately. He was surprised he didn’t recognize that voice right away, annoyed and snippy, just like he remembered. The boy stopped in front of him and did a double take, looking him up and down, a sly grin creeping onto his face.

“Well, well, well. Sam Winchester.”

“Hey, Dylan,” Sam said, swallowing and raising two fingers in acknowledgement. Dylan circled him, the grin still plastered on his face. Sam shifted uneasily, glancing down at the ground. Dean looked at Dylan, then back at Sam, his features furrowed uncertainly. Beth cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence.

“Well, we should get going, we have course work and stuff,” Beth sighed, taking a few steps away from them. “It was really nice to see you again, Sam!”

“You too, Beth,” Sam said, turning away from Dylan to wave goodbye to her.

“Yeah, stop by again soon, Sammy,” Dylan said, his eyes narrowing but the smile not leaving his face. He followed Beth, walking past Sam, letting his fingers brush the denim of the jeans that hung low off of Sam’s hips as he passed. Sam swallowed, tensing up until the fingers moved away. “Catch you later, Sammy boy.” Sam didn’t reply, but swallowed hard when he left. Dean was immediately at his side, knowing clearly something was wrong with this picture, knowing that his brother had never reacted to someone that way before.

“Sam. What in the hell was that?” Dean touched his arm, a growing look of concern spreading over his features. Sam gritted his teeth, frustrated that his reaction had been so humiliatingly blatant.

“Nothing. He’s just… an old friend.”

“An old friend,” Dean repeated. “I’m not sure if I’m buying that.”

“Well, whatever, Dean,” Sam said loudly, shrugging him off and striding away. “He was just this guy. We had kind of a bad past. That’s all. Are we working a case or not?” Dean nodded slowly, dropping the subject and returning his thoughts to the case--mostly.


	2. Hospitalized, Goddammit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean wind up in the hospital.

When night fell, they both felt fairly certain they knew what it was they were fighting and who it was. “Werewolf,” Dean said, shaking his head. “Goddamn those stupid things.” Sam only sighed, scanning the area outside the Impala again.

“Sam. There.” Sam snapped his head in the direction Dean pointed. He caught glimpse of a figure disappearing behind the building before Dean was in action, cocking his .45 and chasing the figure. Sam was right behind him.

 

Sam awoke with a start, jerking up onto his elbows, the sharp lemony scent of alcoholic cleanser hitting his nose. The room spun, and he closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his head and groaning, falling back into the pillow.

  
“Oh, thank God you’re awake, son.” Sam’s eyes snapped open, falling on what he knew was the blurry figure of Bobby. He groaned again and sat up, the room swimming until everything was clear again. His arm throbbed and he felt the dull pinch of what he knew was an IV feed. He tore it off, grimacing.

  
“Where am I?”  
Bobby’s face was lined with worry. “You’re in the hospital, son. Hell of a fight you put up with that thing. Vicious bastard it was.” Sam rubbed his eyes.

  
“We kill it?”

  
“You killed it,” Bobby reassured him, though the worry didn’t leave his face. Sam widened his eyes and cocked his head, his brow already furrowing. His head pounded, and he realized he hadn’t really evaluated the extent of his own injuries, but he had more pressing matters on his mind.

  
“Bobby, where’s Dean?” Bobby sighed and shifted in the chair.

  
“Dean isn’t awake yet.”

  
Sam bolted upright. “What happened? Is he okay?”

  
Bobby lifted his hat from his head and put it back again, rubbing the bridge of his nose and shrugging. “He’s not much worse off than you were. You both were beat pretty bad.” Sam’s heart started thumping, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up and wobbling slightly, head spinning. Bobby protested, but Sam insisted.

 

“I need to see him, Bobby. Take me to him. Please.” Bobby sighed but didn’t argue, instead leading him to the next room over where Dean was. Sam inhaled sharply when they reached the side of his bed. Dean was bandaged all over, bloodstains seeping through most of the gauze. His eyes were closed, his head wrapped in another stained gauze strip, his hospital gown covering what Sam was sure had to be a number of other wounds. Sam swallowed hard at the sight but didn’t turn away.  
“Will he get better?” Sam’s voice was a whisper. Bobby looked at the ground sadly and shook his head.

  
“I don’t know, son.”

  
“Actually, with some time he should heal just fine,” a chirpy voice cut in. A pretty young nurse stepped into the room, her dark brown hair falling over her shoulders in waves. She was carrying a clipboard and smiling widely. “Our tests are saying he should wake up sooner or later. I know it looks bad now, but I assure you everything here is completely healable.” Sam breathed a loud sigh of relief and laughed weakly. “And you, Mr. Samuel Winchester, should still be in your bed,” the nurse said sternly. Sam looked at her, then back down at Dean. He shook his head, trying to keep from groaning when the room swam.

“I’m okay,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “My only concern is him.” The nurse clucked disapprovingly. In the corner of his eye, the tall, dark figure of what he knew could only be Lucifer chuckled, almost inaudibly.

“How sweet of you, Sammy, caring about your brother so much.”

Sam’s mouth twitched and he clasped his hands together, pushing his thumb deep into the scar that wasn’t allowed to heal. Lucifer flickered and disappeared.

“You need to go back to your room, Sam,” the nurse said firmly. He shook his head again, once again ignoring the dizziness that threatened to consume him.

“I can’t. I need to be here when he wakes up. Please.”

The nurse tittered, but after a few more pleads she relented. Sam thanked her profusely. Then he pulled up a chair and sat watching Dean’s face for signs of movement, staying that way for a solid hour.

 

 

Dean stirred, his eyes fluttering open and his face screwing up as the light hit his eyes. “Sam?” he murmured. Sam breathed out the biggest sigh of relief he had ever felt, the tension softening from his shoulders.

“About time you woke up,” he murmured at him. “You know how worried I’ve been?”

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean said tiredly, too exhausted to joke.

“Well, well, good evening, Dean Winchester!” The nurse pulled back the curtain and smiled at him. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a bus,” Dean groaned, rubbing his eyes. The nurse laughed.

“Well, that’s only natural,” she said, sitting next to him and checking his IV feeds. “You’re stable, and you should be able to check out of here in a couple days. We just need to keep an eye on that head of yours.” Dean nodded, the heels of his hands pressed over his eyes. Sam watched the exchange in silence until the nurse walked away, her shoes clicking on the clean linoleum floor, the sound fading into nothing. Then he scooted his chair closer and took Dean’s hand in his, kissing it and murmuring about how worried he had been, how relieved he was that he’d finally woken up. He brushed his lips over the smooth skin of Dean’s forehead, wary of the gauze wrapped around it, kissing any place that didn’t have a wound. Dean gazed up at him, his green eyes glittering, his heart expanding as he felt Sam’s relief flood over him in a barrage of kisses and light touches.

“Sammy,” he breathed finally, squeezing his hand gently and lifting a hand to cup Sam’s face. Sam leaned into the gesture, his eyes fluttering closed and a small sigh escaping him. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Don’t worry.” He spoke gently. Sam lifted his hand to intertwine his fingers with the ones resting on his cheek, opening his eyes and looking down at his big brother.

“I know.”

There was a pause. Dean glanced at the clock; it read 8:52. The windows were dark. In the too-bright light of the hospital lights, for the first time he really looked at his little brother, noticing his own bandages wrapped around every limb of his body, a row of stitches lining his collarbone and shoulder. A large gauze pad was covering a cut near his throat, and the edges of a purpling bruise showed beneath his hairline as a result of his head smashing into the hard sidewalk. Silently, Dean thanked the heavens it wasn’t a worse injury, and clasped Sam’s hand tighter in his own, not wanting to let go.

“Alright, I’ve let this go on long enough,” a voice rang out, and both boys jumped, letting their hands drop as the nurse pulled back the curtain and walked up to Sam. “You boys are both seriously injured and the healing process won’t work as well if one of you is not in his bed.” She looked at Sam, her expression firm, hands on her hips. His shoulders slumped in defeat, the look of genuine disappointment settling on his face. “Those puppy dog eyes aren’t going to work on me, buster,” she said, leaning down and taking his wrist. “You need rest. Come on.”

Sam sagged, then looked up at her, his eyes big and pleading. “Alright… but could I please stay for just a moment longer? I’ll come with you after that, I swear.” The nurse clucked disapprovingly, but turned and walked out the door, declaring she would be back in less than ten minutes. Sam watched her disappear, then quickly leaned down and pressed a deep kiss to Dean’s lips. He made a small “mm” of surprise, then closed his eyes and melted into it. Too soon, Sam pulled away. Dean looked up at him, feeling a loss. Their fingers intertwined, and Sam gripped Dean’s hand.

“You’re really important to me,” he said quietly, looking down at their locked fingers. “I care about you a lot.” He chuckled a little. “Probably more than I should.” He swallowed and squeezed Dean’s hand harder, holding onto it like it was a life preserver. He looked into the green of Dean’s eyes, searching them intently. “I’ll never leave you. Okay? I promise.”

Dean didn’t reply, but he brought up their clasped hands and kissed the back of Sam’s hand, holding it to his lips. He opened his mouth to promise the same, to assure Sam that no matter what he would always be there, but a loud knock and a too-cheery “Well, Mr. Winchester, how about that rest now?” interrupted him. Both boys immediately pulled apart, plastering on the best poker faces they could muster. Dean watched the nurse lead Sam away, feeling wilted at the frustration of the unfinished moment, his eyes catching Sam’s for a brief second as he walked through the doorframe, trying to put what he couldn’t say into the short moment of eye contact. Once Sam had disappeared, he exhaled loudly, letting his head fall back onto the lumpy hospital pillow, his brow furrowed in annoyance. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to shake the sudden feeling of loss.

 

“You know, Sam, I’ve been thinking,” Lucifer said, his voice ringing loud and clear from where he was standing across the room. Sam gritted his teeth and turned his head, shifting his position in bed, IV feeds trailing from his arm and tickling his skin. Lucifer leaned against the wall, examining his fingernails. “This is a pretty big secret you’re keeping, isn’t it?” Sam didn’t reply, so Lucifer pushed off the wall and started pacing the room. “I mean, of course, it depends on which secret I’m talking about, because they’re all pretty big.” He chuckled, then slid across the linoleum, planting himself on the edge of Sam’s bed. “Aw, Sammy, come on, talk to me! We can talk about this new thing between you and Dean and how to deal with it when it completely crashes and burns.” Sam pressed his thumb into his scar. Lucifer flickered, a pained look crossing his face, but didn’t disappear. “Aw, sorry Sammy,” he smirked. “I guess it’s not working.” Sam grimaced, then closed his eyes, squeezing them tight, pressing harder into his scar, until at long last the devil was silenced, and Sam fell into a deep, fitful sleep.


	3. Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets a special visitor.

“Hello, dear. How can I help you?” The receptionist looked up from her computer screen and smiled up at the young man through the glass window.

The man smiled back, baring his whitened teeth, and rested the top half of his fingers on the counter. “Yes, I heard that there was a Sam Winchester here?”

The receptionist nodded. “Yes, I believe there is. He came in the other night. Are you a friend of his?”

Dylan flashed another too-bright smirk. “You could say that. When are his visiting hours, do you know?”

The receptionist leaned back in her chair, adjusting her glasses. “You could go in for a quick hello right now if you’d like. I can only allow you about ten or fifteen minutes, however; Sam is still here for one more day. He needs rest. What did you say your name was?”

“Dylan,” he answered, standing up straighter. “And yours?”

The receptionist smiled. “Donna,” she replied.

“Well, Donna, you’ve been a big help,” Dylan said, laying it on thick. “I’ll have to stop by on my way out to say goodbye.” Donna giggled a little and shifted a few papers around on her desk.

“His room is room number 247,” she said after double-checking. “I’m going to hold you to that goodbye!”

“Don’t worry, hon,” Dylan said, turning to walk towards the 200 hallway. “I’ll be sure to stop by.” He threw her a wink and went on his way, the soles of his shoes squeaking. He approached the rooms. 245, 246… 247.

He knocked once, then pushed open the door. The room was dark, and the light from the hall spilled onto a shape on the bed. Dylan smirked a little and closed the door behind him. He clicked on the light, and Sam grunted in his sleep, protesting.

Dylan walked up to the bed and pulled up a chair, watching Sam’s sleeping form. He lifted a hand and brushed the back of his fingers against Sam’s cheek. Sam shifted in his sleep. “Psst,” Dylan whispered. He leaned in closer, inhaling deeply, Sam’s scent filling his nose. “Hey. Sammy baby. Your favorite is here.” He chuckled to himself, then reached over and shook Sam’s shoulder. Sam roused, shaking him off.

“Wha? Hm?” Sam blinked and squinted at him, groggy from sleep. His eyes widened when Dylan came into focus, and he immediately tried to sit up, backing away from his touch.

“Hey, hey, hey, Sammy, what’s your deal? I missed you.”

“Get away from me.” Sam’s eyes were wide, and his hands scrabbled, slipping on the sheets as he tried to back away from him. Lucifer chuckled in the background.

“Aw, look, Sammy. One of your secrets came by for a visit. Ready to spill yet? I bet Dean won’t be happy, tsk tsk tsk.” Sam said nothing. He swallowed hard, not breaking his stare, his green eyes unblinking. Dylan, seemingly unbothered by Sam’s reaction, leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, smirking at him.

“You know, Sam, I was expecting a warmer welcome.” He chuckled darkly. “After all, I made your experience at Stanford well worth it, did I not?”

“Get out!” Sam kicked his legs out, trying to further their distance apart, balancing on the very edge of his bed. With a small cry he lost his balance and fell off, landing hard on his shoulder. Dylan watched the display, expressionless, before he stood up, shaking his head.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” he sighed, walking around to the other side of the bed and kneeling so they were face to face. “You never were very coordinated. Must be my charm.” He chuckled to himself before seizing Sam’s collar, pulling his face close to his own and holding it there, enjoying the petrified look on Sam’s face.

“Aw, Sammy, kick him off, you know you can!” Lucifer called from across the room. “Or maybe you can’t, I don’t know. You haven’t exactly been strong lately.”

“See, Sam, the last time we saw each other, we didn’t really end on good terms, did we?” Dylan sat back on his heels, pretending to be deep in thought. “Let’s see, what happened again? Do you remember?” He looked at Sam pointedly.

Sam mustered up all his control and unclenched his jaw. “I got away from you,” he spat, feeling braver. He propped himself up on his elbows, ignoring the fact that Dylan’s fingers were still wound in the fabric of his hospital gown. His features hardened. “I made the right choice. I left you. Do you remember now?” Sarcasm threaded his words, his temerity growing.

Dylan rubbed his jaw in mock remembrance. “Hmm. Yes, I do believe that sounds familiar.” He locked eyes with Sam and the corners of his mouth lifted coldly. “Except… are you sure it was the right choice, Sammy boy? You haven’t exactly been right in the head lately, have you? With Jessica, and all. I know she was such a tragedy.” Sam gritted his teeth. Lucifer clucked, appearing behind Dylan and crossing his arms.

“Well, the part about your head was right, anyway,” he said.

“Did you miss me, Sammy? I know I missed you.” Dylan let go of Sam’s collar and ran his fingertips along Sam’s jaw line. Sam’s face contorted as if his touch was painful, resisting the urge to make a sound. Dylan seized Sam’s jaw suddenly, his thumb and index finger on either side of his face, pressing into his cheeks. “So pretty, Sammy. You always were.” He leaned in and kissed him hard on the mouth, still gripping his jaw, and Sam made a small noise of protest as his tongue slipped in. Dylan pulled away, searching Sam’s widened eyes. “So pretty,” he repeated, then struck Sam hard across the face. He fell over, but before he could get back up, Dylan clasped his palms together and bashed him on the back of his head with a double fist as hard as he could, putting his whole body into it. Sam didn’t even have time to cry out as he turned, his vision already blurring, just in time to see Dylan grab the metal tray from beside his bed and smash him over the head with it. He had already blacked out.


	4. Dark In Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes up in someplace unfamiliar. Can he escape before anyone shows up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, this chapter is a little short. I'm going to try and post the next one later today, but I don't know if I'll get to it; I want the next one to be perfect.

           _Fire. Lots of it, burning, scalding, and Sam screamed, unable to move, to flail like he so desperately wanted to, anything to put out the flames. He screamed over Lucifer’s sadistic cackling as the fire poured over him, hot and threatening to melt his very flesh off his bones, his skin burning bright red until it could no longer hold together and began to crack. Sam tried not to throw up as the quivering muscle beneath his flesh was exposed and the nerves there exploded, sending wave after wave of excruciating pain shooting through Sam’s whole being. His eyes, they **burned** , and the flames were swallowing him and he couldn’t escape, couldn’t move, his feet planted firmly in place as if they were chained to the floor. His hands reached out and clawed the air blindly, desperate for escape, for relief, but they only met more heat, stabbing his fingers and tearing open the skin, exposing the blue veins that snaked across the back of his hands, and Sam sobbed as his nerves writhed in agony in the belly of the fire. Above him he could hear Lucifer cackling madly as he poured flame after flame over Sam’s body, gleeful at every strip of skin that gave up and fell off of Sam’s muscled back, until Sam could have sworn he had no flesh left at all. He felt it all, the fire liquefying his very bones, his screams blending with Lucifer’s laughter, and couldn’t hold it in any longer, couldn’t stay strong, and from his mouth he couldn’t help the single word that spilled from his mouth as it all crashed on top of him and the little boy within him burst free, screaming in desperation for all of hell to hear: **“Dean!”**_

****

****

          Sam woke with a gasp, bolting upright, breathing hard. The concrete floor was cold beneath the palm of his hand as he held himself up, other hand over his chest, his heart thumping. His throat dry, he swallowed, his eyes sweeping the unfamiliar room, adjusting to the darkness.

          The room was cold, with grimy concrete walls and a single flickering light bulb hanging in the center by a string just above him. Off in the shadows was the silhouette of some kind of table. Sam didn’t want to know what the shapes were that lay on it. To his right, splintery wood stairs spiraled up to the ceiling; Sam couldn’t see where they led but his heart leapt at the thought of escape. He didn’t want to know how he had gotten here or why; he just wanted to get back to the hospital, no questions asked. He stood up, wobbling on unsteady legs as he tried to regain his balance. His head spun, and he became aware of just how painfully his head was throbbing as the blood rushed to it; he must have stood up too fast. He rubbed his forehead as he took an shaky step forward, the room still swimming before him. Taking a deep breath, he made his way towards the stairs, gripping the cold metal railing once he reached them, leaning heavily on it as he put one foot in front of the other, climbing up the steps painfully slowly. The splintery wood stabbed at his bare feet, but he pushed through it, knowing that he could pull the wood out of his skin later.

          He climbed for what seemed like an awfully long time. The spiral staircase didn’t mix well with his throbbing head, and he slipped, his feet sliding from under him. He landed on his knees and skidded, falling backwards a few steps, scraping them up so that when he stood again, grimacing, bright red crosshatch patterns had been cut into his skin, tiny trickles of crimson blood beading at the deeper lines. He brushed himself off, silently cursing his clumsiness, and clung to the railing again, moving to continue his trek up the ridiculously long staircase.

          After what seemed like an eternity, traces of light appeared around the corner, and Sam’s heart jumped hopefully. With a new vigor, he climbed faster, the railing becoming less necessary as he hurried towards the source of the light. Sure enough, he’d reached the top of the stairs, the light spilling from the crack under a thick white door. Eagerly, he reached for the brass door handle, already thinking about what he would say to Dean when he saw him again, how big of a hug he wanted to give him. His fingers closed around the handle and he pulled down, pushing the door open as quietly as he could, until it was almost all the way open... and his heart fell and shattered. For standing in the doorway with the fattest smirk Sam had ever seen, was Dylan.

          “Well, well, well, Sammy,” he mused, watching with delight as Sam backed up, his heart thumping crazily in his chest. “What do we have here? Surely you didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” With a loud chuckle, he took a step forward and shoved Sam’s shoulders, sending him tumbling down the stairs with a yelp. He clucked as he stood over Sam lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, shaking his head in mock disapproval, like he’d caught Sam with a hand in the cookie jar. “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” he sighed, crossing his arms. “We are going to have a lot of fun together, you and I.” A sly grin slithered onto his face as he looked down at him, and Sam couldn’t help but whimper and close his eyes, bracing himself for what he knew was coming next.


	5. Down Where The Light Never Shows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean discovers Sammy is missing....

Dean knew he was breaking the rules, and probably pushing his worn body to its limit, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t sleep, and the only thing he’d been able to think about was Sammy. So that was why, at 3:17 in the morning, he hoisted his damaged legs over the side of the bed and stood up, walking carefully towards the door. The emergency lights were lit up in the hospital hallway, and he glanced around to make sure there weren’t any nurses ready to usher him back to bed before he padded down the hall to Sam’s room.

          “Sammy?” he whispered, pushing the door open a crack. Light from the hall spilled into the dark room. Dean glanced around, then slipped into his room, closing the door behind him to avoid suspicion from any passing doctors. “Sammy,” he whispered again, a slight smile on his face as he approached the rumpled sheets. “Sammy, wake up.” He leaned over and prodded the sheets, the smile disappearing from his face. He frowned, his stomach twisting nervously as he patted the bed and felt around for a body. He found none.

          Worried now, he hurried over to the wall and threw the light switch. Light flooded the small room, and with a cold thrill of fear he saw that Sam was not in the room. “It’s okay,” he said aloud to himself. “They just moved him to a different room. No problem. I can just ask a nurse where he’s been moved.” He turned to leave the room and find a nurse, taking a step forward and pausing as a glint of silver caught his eye. Turning back, he noticed the shiny metal meal tray from Sam’s bedside lying on the floor. _Okay, that’s odd,_ he thought to himself, frowning and kneeling down to give it a closer look. Close to it, a tiny red smear caught his attention, and with a bad feeling, he reached out a finger and touched it, bringing it close to his face to examine, only to notice that they continued, in a scattered trail to the other side of the bed. His stomach twisted coldly and he stood slowly, following the small smears around until he stood at the other side of the bed, staring down at the pile of twisted bed sheets, half on the bed and half off, like someone had fallen—or been dragged—out of bed. “No,” Dean whispered, his heart thumping as he backed away from the scene. He all but sprinted from the room, his bare feet slapping the tiles, ignoring the pain shooting up his legs and head. “Nurse!” he called, waving down the nearest uniformed woman he saw. She approached him, looking concerned.

          “Dean, you need to be in bed. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?!”

          “My brother,” Dean panted. “Sam Winchester. Where is he?”

          The concerned look didn’t leave the woman’s face, but she turned to a different nurse. “Hey, Linda, what room is Sam Winchester in?”

         “Room 247,” she said, not even blinking. “Why, honey? What’s the matter?”

          “I was afraid you were going to say that,” Dean muttered, burying his face in his hands.

          “You need to go back to bed, honey. You can see your brother in the morning.” The nurse took Dean’s arm and started leading him back to his room.

          “No. I can’t.”

          “Why not, dear?” The nurse spoke like he was a child she was humoring.

               

          “Because someone took him from his room.” His voice was monotone, dulled, like he was in shock. The nurse stopped and looked at him.

          “What?”

          “He’s not _there,”_ Dean snapped, turning to her and wincing when pain shot through his head. “I _checked._ He’s _gone.”_

“Maybe he went to the bathroom, dear.”

          “There is _blood on the floor!”_ Dean yelled, wrenching his arm from her grip. The nurse gaped at him, then shook herself.

          “Linda. Call 911,” she demanded, looking at the other nurse. She nodded and walked briskly in the other direction towards a phone. “Dean,” she said, turning to him. “What happened?” Dean buried his face in his hands.

          “How should I know? I just went in there to tell him...” He stopped. Swallowed. “I just needed to tell him something. I couldn’t sleep. It was bothering me. He wasn’t in his room, and there was blood on the floor. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

          “Alright. Alright. Don’t worry, Dean, honey. We’re going to find your brother, okay? Maybe he’s still in the hospital somewhere.” Dean shook his head mutely. Wherever Sam had gone, it wasn’t just to the bathroom. It was something worse. He knew it, deep in his gut, and it was a sick feeling. He wished it would go away. He wished his brother was back in his arms. He wished he’d been just five seconds faster last night, made sure Sam knew just how much he loved him. But he wasn’t, and now...

          “I think I’m going to be sick,” Dean choked out, clutching his stomach and hobbling to the nearest bathroom. He retched into the toilet, trying to dispel all the images flying around his head, torturing him with ideas of where Sam could be, and none of them good.

          He had no idea where to begin his search, but he swallowed hard, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, lifting himself up, his knuckles white from his grip on the edge of the toilet seat. He would find Sammy, and bring him home. He had to.

 

 

***

 

          Darkness. There was more darkness than not. The light bulb just above him was dim, providing little to no escape from the black. Sam focused on his breathing; if he focused on the pain it would overwhelm him, he knew it would. So he forced himself to breathe normally, deeply; in, out, in, out. His wrists were crossed behind his back, wound tightly together with rope, cutting deep into his skin. The rope was looped around a metal chain, attaching his wrists to the solid ground beneath him. He was on his knees, his ankles cuffed to the floor. Around his throat was a collar, with a leash trailing from the attached hook to a similar hook screwed into the ceiling. The length of the leash traveled back down from there, attached to a third hook on the floor, forming a kind of pulley. The nylon fabric of the collar rubbed against the skin of his neck, raising angry red burns where it was wrapped tight around his throat.

          Breathe. In, out. In, out.

          _Dylan laughed cruelly, kicking him hard in the stomach so the wind was knocked out of him. He struggled to suck air into his oxygen-deprived lungs, staring up at his captor, eyes bright with pain._

In, out. In, out. Breathe. Focus. Breathe.

          _He was wrenched to his feet, cold fingers closing tight around his windpipe. He clawed at them, trying to pry them off, his face losing color as he scrabbled to undo the iron grip. He was thrown against the wall; the only thing keeping him upright was the fist around his neck. His feet kicked as he was lifted high into the air, the edges of his vision starting to go black. Just as he was about to lose consciousness, Dylan let go, and he dropped to the floor, gasping for breath, rubbing his throat. With a low growl Dylan lifted his leg and delivered a kick straight across the side of his face._

Breathe. Focus. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

          _“Worthless,” he heard Dylan hiss. He was dragged to his feet, slugged across the face. He stumbled, a hand pressed to his cheek. He felt Dylan’s hands on his shoulders as he spun him around, pushing him face forward into the wall, tearing at the back of his shirt so it ripped, the buttons in the front coming undone with the force of it. He tore it off, the sleeves hanging on by a sliver, and let it flutter to the floor, exposing Sam’s muscled back. He dug his fingernails into the skin above his shoulder blades and clawed at his back. Sam bit back a pained sound as he felt Dylan’s nails press into his back, leaving reddened half-moon crevices embedded in his skin. Dylan hooked his nails into the softness of Sam’s flesh and pulled hard, and this time Sam couldn’t help but cry out as he felt the sting of eight long gashes dragged down his back. “Worthless.” Sam was flipped around, struck hard. “Nobody loves you.” Sam fell over, throwing out an arm to catch himself, tears streaming down his face. “Not your mother. Not your father.” A foot connected with Sam’s jaw and he cried out. “Not even that precious brother of yours.”_

          Inhale. Exhale.

          _“I bet you think he loves you, don’t you?” Dylan twisted Sam’s arm behind his back, pressing a knee between his shoulder blades. He leaned down so his mouth was next to Sam’s ear. “I saw the way you looked at him. Like he was something more.” He flicked out his tongue and licked at Sam’s cheek, the saltiness of his tears. “I bet you think he thinks the same about you.” Sam let out a small, choked sob. Dylan’s face twisted into a cruel grin. “I’m here to tell you that he doesn’t.”_

Inhale. Sam tipped his head forward, silent tears streaming from his eyes. Exhale.

          _“You are nothing to him.” A fist wrapped in his hair, pulled his head up high. “Nothing but a brother. A stupid, snot-nosed little brother who always needed his help.” The hand tightened its grip in his hair. “I remember how fondly you talked about him. What was his name again?” Dylan chuckled coldly and brushed his lips against Sam’s ear. “Oh yeah. **Dean.”** Sam whimpered, trying to tug his head free, his stomach twisting coldly. The name sounded wrong on Dylan’s lips. “I actually think I probably did him a favor, taking you from the hospital. No more pesky little brother to take care of. No more responsibility for a boy who is destined never to fit in, anyway.”_

Sam sobbed out loud, his breathing pattern lost, his shoulders shaking, his hair falling in his eyes as salty tears dotted the grimy concrete floor below him.

          _“Freedom. I bet that’s all Dean thinks about. Just one day where he doesn’t need to watch out for his little brother. The **freak.”** Dylan spat the last word at Sam, and a small noise came from Sam’s throat._

_“No,” he rasped, trying to wrench his head from Dylan’s grip. “You’re wrong. He doesn’t think that at all.”_

_Dylan laughed, a nasty sound that echoed off the walls. “And how would you know, Sammy? Why would he tell you how sick of you he is? Why would he bother with telling you when he could just lay down at night and pray that someday you would be gone?” Dylan’s voice hardened, lowering to a murmur. “He didn’t even fight you when you left for Stanford, did he? I bet those years were the best of his life. Freedom. His brother was gone.”_

_“Stop it,” Sam choked out. Dylan pushed his head forward onto the ground, and the floor was cold against Sam’s cheek. He leaned farther forward, his breath hot against Sam’s temple._

_“The truth is hard to hear, Sammy boy.”_

Normal breathing had long since been forgotten, and instead heavy sobs racked his body, making him shudder as he leaned heavily on the collar, the fabric cutting into his throat. Tears dripped steadily down his face, and he desperately yanked his wrists, trying to undo the thick rope trapping them. The light above him flickered.

          _Worthless._

Sam screamed, twisting in his bindings, exploding in a frenzy of hysterics and desperation, the collar breaking the skin of his neck and leaving scarlet trickles of blood running down the front of his bare chest. He kicked out, the rattling of the chain on the wrist and ankle cuffs infuriating him, and he grappled with them, trying to bend his body so it would snap the clattering metal.

          _Freak._

Sam wrenched himself wildly, choked screams spilling haphazardly from his throat and bouncing off the walls of his confinement, loud shrieks of frustration and humiliation echoing back at him, mocking him. He sobbed, pulling at his bindings, becoming less vigorous as he broke down, tired and frustrated, his throat raw. He didn’t look up when he heard the creak of the door upstairs, didn’t look up to see Dylan walk down the rickety stairs, pushing his sleeves up and balancing a whip in his palm, didn’t want to see Dylan’s lips when he clucked disapprovingly. “Now, now, Sammy,” he said, stroking Sam’s hair away from his face. “What did I tell you about being quiet?”


	6. Go Back to Bed, Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is sick of the hospital and wants out.

          “No. Let me up. I need to go.” Dean attempted to sit up again, only to be pushed back down with gentle hands.

          “Dean, you’re still seriously injured. We need you to stay put for a couple more days, okay?” The nurse pulled the blanket up to Dean’s chin and patted his cheek.

          “You don’t understand, lady. I need to go. I need to find my brother. He could be hurt.”

          “Dean, we already called the police and filed the report. They’re handling it. You just need to relax. The cops will find your brother.” The nurse looked at Dean earnestly. “You don’t need to do everything, you know.”

          Dean grimaced, opening his mouth and closing it again without any words. He exhaled loudly through his nose, frustrated, his brow furrowed angrily. The nurse gave him an encouraging smile and patted the top of his head, scooping up her clipboard and walking out of the room. Dean lifted his head to watch her leave. He slammed his head back down onto the pillow and made a loud noise of frustration.

          A knock on the door made him turn his head. “Hey, son,” Bobby said, standing in the doorway, a hand shoved in his pocket.

          “Hey, Bobby,” Dean replied tiredly. He stared up at the ceiling as Bobby entered the room and sat in the chair beside his bed.

          “How are you doing, Dean?”

          Dean just looked at him. “My brother’s been kidnapped. How do you think I’m doing?”

          Bobby gestured his head in such a way that he was almost saying ‘fair enough.’ “Other than that.”

          “I don’t know, Bobby. I feel fine enough to walk. I don’t know why they’re not letting me go.”

          “You have a concussion, Dean.”

          “So what?!” Dean propped himself up on his elbows, looking furious. “So what?! I’m going to live! Sam on the other hand, might not!” Bobby looked stricken, and Dean’s eyes widened the moment the words left his mouth. “I...” His mouth opened and closed and his gaze shifted to his lap. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

          Bobby nodded slowly. “Look, son, I’ll call the nurse, see if she can give you something that’ll help you sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

          “I’ll feel better when I get Sam back.”

          Bobby had nothing to say to that, so he stood and called the nurse. She came and injected something into Dean’s IV feed bag, smiling apologetically as his vision blurred and he grew drowsy, dropping off into a black, dreamless sleep.

 

          When he woke, it was dark outside. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and stretching. He glanced at the clock; it was approximately 2:14 in the morning. He groaned and fell back against the pillow, closing his eyes tight and trying to rid his brain of any thought of his brother.

          He managed to stay that way for about a half hour before he couldn’t take it anymore and threw his legs over the side of the bed, grunting as he stood. He took an unsteady step forward, shaking his head to clear the fuzziness in his vision. He picked up his coat from where it lay on the chair and shrugged it on, straightening the collar before rubbing his eyes and walking out into the brightly lit hallway. Praying he didn’t run into any nurses, he made his way down the halls, trying to find the exit. He rummaged through his pockets and extracted his cell phone, flipping it open and calling Bobby’s main number.

          “Hello?”

          “Bobby.” Dean’s voice was groggy from sleep. “I need a favor. Could you come pick me up?”

          “Dean, I thought we talked about this,” Bobby said tiredly. “You still need at least one more day of rest. You’re not healed.”

          “I can’t stay here anymore, Bobby,” Dean said, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and his index finger. “I can’t just sit here anymore. It’s killing me, thinking about what’s happening to Sam.”

          There was a long pause before Bobby sighed loudly. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

          “Thanks,” Dean said, relieved. Bobby grunted reluctantly at him and hung up. Dean yawned and stretched, wincing when pain shot up his spine. His head throbbed dully, but he ignored it, rubbing his forehead and resuming his trek through the hospital halls until he had made his way to the front.

          “Dean Winchester, do we have to strap you to your bed?” The receptionist looked at him pointedly. “What are you doing wandering the halls? Again? You caused quite a stir the other night. I don’t usually hear much about the patients, but you caused some disruption.”

          “My uncle is coming to pick me up,” Dean told her tiredly, squatting down to sit on one of the cushioned chairs. “I’m sorry. I just can’t stay here any longer.” He looked up at her, glancing at her nametag. “How long have you been working here, Donna?”

          She leaned on her elbows and smiled. “Not too long,” she replied, sighing. “Are you sure, Dean? This isn’t a prison, but I know I’d feel a lot better if you were back in bed.”

          “I’m sure. I need to find my brother. I just can’t take it anymore, sitting here like a useless lump.” Dean scrubbed his face with his hands, running his fingers through his hair and sighing. Donna cocked her head.

          “Your brother? Who’s your brother?”

          “Sam Winchester.” Dean cleared his throat. “He was here the other night. Now he’s not. I need to find him.”

          “Oh, yes, that’s right. Sam. I remember. A nice young man came to visit him the other night. Friend of yours?”

          Dean’s head snapped up. “He had a visitor? Who?”

          Donna looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “What was his name? Something with a D, I think. Derek, maybe?”

          Dean’s heart started pounding. “Dylan?”

          Donna snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Yes! Dylan. His name was Dylan. Very sweet young man. Handsome, too. Came around just to say goodbye to me before he left.”

          “Did you mention this to the cops?”

          Donna gave him a strange look. “They didn’t ask. Dylan wasn’t in his room for very long. Only about five minutes. Didn’t even need to sign in. Said he just needed to tell him something.”

          Dean stared at the floor, his face ashen, then stood up and strode back down the hall, ignoring Donna calling his name. He stumbled his way back to Sam’s room and threw open the door, clicking on the light and striding to the far wall, towards the window. He threw back the curtains and peered out, his heart sinking.

          Just as he had feared, the window was about a foot away from the ground, facing the empty back parking lot of the hospital, where the dumpsters were kept. Nobody would guard the back lot; nobody would notice if a body was lifted and dropped into the bushes below. And Dylan could stride right back through, like the arrogant son of a bitch Dean knew he was, smile at the receptionist and walk right through.

          Dean practically ran back to the front, where a bewildered Bobby stood with the receptionist, both looking at him strangely.

          “We have to go,” Dean panted, looking at Bobby. “I know who took Sammy.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is still trapped in Dylan's basement, and is about to become the unfortunate victim....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience, my lovely readers! I'm sorry I haven't updated in a little bit, so as an apology here is a nice long chapter just for you! I hope everyone is liking the story so far; I hope it's not too dark for any of you. This chapter gets a bit grim, so in case you didn't see the archive warnings before, here is your last chance to turn around. Thanks for your patience, everybody.

          The chains stretched taut as Sam strained against them. He screamed, louder this time, as the whip was brought down again and again, leaving long tears in the skin of his back. “What’s the matter, Sammy?” Dylan taunted as he dropped the whip and grabbed Sam’s jaw, twisting his head so he was forced to look at him. “Does it hurt?”

          Sam didn’t reply, only clenched his teeth and looked up at him, his eyes bright with pain. Dylan clucked and dropped his hand, walking over to the hook on the floor and untying his leash. He gave it a jerk and Sam choked, felt himself pulled up. His cuffed wrists kept him secured to the floor, stretching him in two directions, until he felt like his head was surely going to be ripped from his body. Laughing, Dylan let go, and Sam coughed, gasping for breath. Dylan pulled a knife from his belt and held it at Sam’s throat. “Try anything and I will slit you,” he threatened. When he was confident Sam wasn’t going to go anywhere, he pulled a rung of keys from his belt and undid Sam’s wrist chains, taking them from the hook on the floor and securing them onto a different chain hanging from the ceiling. Sam grunted in pain as Dylan walked around and yanked the end of the leash on the ceiling, tugging his hands up high above his head. His body was ramrod straight, his arms stretched up, the concrete hard against his knees.

          “That’s better,” Dylan said cheerfully, testing the new leash by tugging it, tying it to a hook on the floor. “Now I have better control over you. Isn’t that wonderful?”

          “Get fucked,” Sam spat, his arms trembling as the blood slowly drained from them. Dylan’s eyes darkened and his mouth twitched in a slight grin.

          “Maybe I will, Sammy.”

          Sam’s heartbeat quickened with fear, his body jerking in his bindings. Dylan walked behind him, and despite Sam twisting, he couldn’t turn to see him. “You look so pretty from behind, Sammy.” His fingers stroked the denim material covering his backside.

          “Don’t touch me.” Sam couldn’t keep a quiver of fear out of his voice. Dylan chuckled behind him.

          “That’s a good one, Sammy.” Dylan walked back around to his front, looking down at the kneeling Sam. He cocked a grin and leaned down, hands swiftly undoing Sam’s belt, letting it drop with a clink to the floor.

          “Don’t.” Sam’s voice trembled. Dylan only chuckled before undoing his own belt, pulling down his zipper and revealing his engorged cock, already hard and throbbing. Sam swallowed hard, his throat going dry at the sight of it.

          “Aw, but Sam, we had such fun together in college. Don’t you remember? Didn’t you miss me?”

          Dylan knelt so their faces were level, looking at Sam’s terrified face, reveling in it. Without a word, he leaned forward and forced his lips over Sam’s, roughly pushing his tongue between Sam’s lips. Sam could only whimper as he felt the fleshy object probing his mouth, exploring every crevice. Dylan pulled away and attacked his neck, biting hard enough to leave marks, occasionally drawing blood. “What’s the matter, Sam?” Dylan asked against his neck when Sam let out a small pained noise. “I thought you liked love bites.”

          Sam grimaced and held his tongue, trying to ignore the taste of Dylan that now filled his mouth. His heart started pounding when Dylan stood up, pushing his jeans to the floor and shedding his t-shirt so the only thing he was wearing was his boots. “Open wide,” Dylan demanded cheekily. Sam clamped his jaw shut and shook his head.

          Dylan reached down and squeezed Sam’s cheeks, pinching with his thumb and index finger until his mouth opened. Sam kept his teeth clamped firmly together until Dylan shook his face angrily. “Open up, princess.”

          “No,” Sam growled through gritted teeth. Dylan lost his patience and slugged Sam across the face, his knuckles scraping Sam’s cheekbones. Sam let out a sharp noise of pain, and Dylan grabbed his face again quickly, this time squeezing Sam’s cheeks so that Sam couldn’t bite down lest he bite the inside of his cheek.

          “I would advise you cooperate from now on,” Dylan snarled, pushing his hips forward and forcing his cock into Sam’s open mouth. “If I feel teeth, you’re going to regret it.” Sam said nothing, but sparks of tears stabbed the corners of his eyes as Dylan moved in and out, saliva dribbling from the side of his mouth as he took unwilling part in the sloppy blowjob. Tears trickled down his cheeks, blending with the saliva, trailing down his jaw, salt mixing with salt. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to gag as Dylan pushed further back into his throat. His teeth accidentally scraped the skin of Dylan’s cock, and he froze, tensing up, expecting punishment. It seemed to go unnoticed by Dylan, however, who now had his head tilted back and his eyes closed, his mouth slack and making noises of pleasure as his hips thrust back and forth. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Dylan came, in great spurts that hit the back of Sam’s throat and caused him to cough violently until Dylan pulled out. Sam, in a last-ditch attempt to salvage his dignity, coughed one more time and spat his cum onto the concrete floor.

          Dylan grabbed his hair and forced his head back, glaring down at him. “You stupid slut.” He looked down at the cum on the floor and stepped on it, smearing it into his boot. He looked back down at Sam. “Since I’m such a nice person, I’m going to let that slide. But you are to swallow from now on, like the whore you are. Got it?” Sam said nothing, only swallowed to try and rid his throat of the dry sensation that crept up on him, his neck muscles working as he stared defiantly up at Dylan. Dylan released his hold and gave him a long stare before he reached up and undid the leash holding Sam’s wrists. His arms praised the lord as they dropped, circulation beginning to pump back through them, and his wrists were secured back to the floor. “I’ll be back for you in an hour,” Dylan said to Sam, pulling his pants back up and scooping his shirt from the floor. Sam dropped his head the moment he was gone, hair falling in his face, his skin burning hot and silent tears of shame dripping down his face. The wounds in his back from the whip had faded to a dull sting.

          “Aw, Sam, does this bring back old college memories or what?” Sam didn’t need to lift his head to know that it was Lucifer speaking. “You know, I have to say, Sam, your little act of defiance was impressive.” Lucifer walked over to Sam, and Sam flinched as he felt a callused hand stroking his hair. “If only Dylan realized how broken you really are. I was surprised you had even that left in you.”

          “Go away.” Sam’s voice was hoarse, and he looked up, his eyes shining with tears. “What do you want from me? I’m chained up in Dylan’s basement. I’m hogtied like a little bitch, just like you like. What more do you want from me? What more do I have to endure? What else can you possibly take from me?”

          Lucifer gazed down at Sam, his face expressionless. When Sam let his head fall again, he crossed his arms and clapped a hand over his heart. “Aw, Sammy, you’re going to make me cry. That was such a heart-breaking little speech.”

          “Leave me alone.”

          “Maybe if you would stop being a self-pitying sack you could get yourself out of this. Although personally, I prefer you like this: a sitting duck. Makes things so much easier. A little harder to ignore me, don’t you think?”

          Sam didn’t reply, didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. He just let his head hang, his shoulders aching from the awkward position on the floor, and let his thoughts drift back to Dean. Somewhere, he hoped, his brother was okay. Somewhere, his Dean was looking for him.

          “Unless Dylan was right,” Lucifer whispered, his voice dripping with sadism. Or maybe Sam was imagining it. “Unless he really is happier with you gone.”

          Sam squeezed his eyes tightly shut and forced himself not to answer, forced himself to ignore him. He didn’t want to see the smug look on Lucifer’s face when he finally got to him. So he clenched his teeth together and turned his head, willing Lucifer to go away, willing himself to fall asleep so that for a moment, he could be away from this nightmare. Maybe he would even dream of Dean.

          ***

 

          “Sammy! I have a present for you!”

          Sam opened his eyes, blinking slowly, the bags under his eyes thick and the ache in his shoulders strong from sleeping with his arms pulled behind his back. He gazed at Dylan with half-lidded eyes, following him as he crossed the room, lugging something large and filthy white behind him. He let the large thing drop to the floor with a loud, echoing thump before dusting off his hands and placing them on his hips, letting out a breath of satisfaction. He looked at Sam, who stared back at him dully. He gestured at the object on the floor with both hands. “Look, Sam! I brought you a mattress! Aren’t you excited?”

          Sam didn’t reply, but turned away from Dylan and let his head hang down again. Dylan made a dissatisfied noise and clucked. “Now, now,” he said, leaning down and pushing the mattress over to Sam so it bumped into his legs. Sam winced without thinking, but he refused to let emotion show on his face. He would make himself solid, hard as a rock. It was the only way to get through this until Dean rescued him. Because Dean _would_ rescue him. That was the only thought he needed to believe.

          Dylan wrestled Sam flat on his back on the dirty mattress, but Sam hardly put up a fight. He barely noticed when his arms were stretched up high above his head and attached to the other end of the mattress. His thoughts were too absorbed in maintaining his own sanity. When he noticed, however, that the material of his jeans had begun sliding off his legs, he thrashed, kicking out. “No!”

          Dylan held an iron grip on his ankles and grunted as he wrestled them down. With some effort, he pinned down Sam’s legs and had them shackled back to the floor. Sam’s heart had started beating too fast once again, and a tiny thrum of terror vibrated up his spine as he writhed, trying desperately to keep his jeans on his hips. Dylan was having none of that, however, and with a low growl he had pulled them down to his ankles.

          “Isn’t this nostalgic?” Dylan simpered, crawling up over Sam, their faces level. His face broke out into a sickly sneer. “Just like back in Stanford, right, Sammy?” Reaching down between his legs, Dylan slid the top of his finger along the inner fabric of the waistband of Sam’s plaid cotton boxers.

          “Dylan... No... Please, I’ll do anything, please, don’t do this!”

          “So polite,” Dylan mused, pausing before he yanked down the boxer shorts. Cold air wafted over Sam’s bare skin, and he shook, ashamed of his own fear, but at the same time consumed by it. His voice was just a rasp.

          “Please, no, Dylan, don’t, please don’t, I’m begging you, not this, anything but this, Dylan, please...”

          Dylan ignored him, reaching down to Sam’s limp cock and working his fingers over it. With a choked sob, Sam’s mind raced to think of anything at all to keep himself soft, but after a time his cock begrudgingly responded to the unwanted touches, standing stiff and flat against his solid abdomen. Sam’s heart thumped as Dylan’s fingers brushed over the underside of his cock, moving down lower, tracing his fingers over his hole.

          “Dylan... Dylan, if you ever loved me, at all, you wouldn’t do this, please, Dylan, I’m begging you, please don’t do this...”

          “Oh, but Sam!” Dylan looked up at him, feigning surprise. “Don’t you remember?” He leaned closer to him and smiled, his breath sour. “I do this _because_ I love you, Sam. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t.”

          “You’re evil,” Sam spat, his voice shaking. “You never loved me, not even in Stanford. Never. You were just a stupid, sadistic bastard.”

          Quick as a whip, Dylan had his hands around Sam’s throat, squeezing tight, his face dark with fury. “I would watch your mouth if I were you,” he warned, his voice low and gravelly. He grazed his fingers over Sam’s hole again, his other hand still wrapped around Sam’s throat, and Sam couldn’t even make a sound of protest. His face was beginning to lose color, and he desperately yanked at the bindings around his wrists, trying to free them so he could pry the fingers away. Just as the edges of his vision had begun to blacken, Dylan released his grip, and Sam gasped, sucking in a lungful of air and coughing.

          His fingers continued to graze over Sam’s hole, and with a twisted grin, he slowly pushed his index finger in. “God, you’re tight. When was the last time you were with someone since me?”

          Sam didn’t reply, only squeezed his eyes shut tightly and prayed he would make it through this, trying to ignore the finger that now wiggled inside him, pressing against his velvety inner walls.

          With a dissatisfied grunt, Dylan slipped two more fingers in, and Sam had to stifle a whimper of pain. Dylan scissored his fingers around, stretching him until Sam let out a choked cry.

          “Please, please stop, please don’t, I’m sorry, Dylan, anything I ever did to hurt you, I’m sorry, please don’t do this to me!” His cheeks burned as shame flooded over him, ashamed of his begging, of what he’d been reduced to in less than seventy two hours.

          “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Dylan mused, retracting his fingers and moving to undo his own belt. “You didn’t _do_ anything. Well, except for leave me for Jessica, and then take off with that brother of yours right after she died. Left me for a _girl,_ no less, left me humiliated and pissed as all hell. Right, Sam? Didn’t I tell you that you were mine? Oh, but little Sammy got all defiant, didn’t he, decided he didn’t need _me_ anymore. But I think you forgot, Sam,” Dylan hissed, throwing his jeans to the side and crouching over him, his engorged cock bobbing up and down slightly, “that you are still _mine. My_ property.” He spat in the palm of his hand, slicking up his cock, and Sam knew that was the only lube he was going to get. _“My_ bitch. _Mine._ And, well...” Dylan pried his legs open with his knee as much as the restraint would allow, pressed the tip of his cock against the entrance of Sam’s hole and began to push into him, his mouth curling at the corners as Sam couldn’t bite back a whimper. “It’s time for a reminder.”

          Sam knew no one would hear, even as he screamed himself hoarse, his ass burning like hellfire as Dylan rammed into him. He felt twin rivulets of blood trickle down the inside of his thighs, but if Dylan noticed, it didn’t faze him. He simply thrust harder, pounding into Sam with as much force as he could, reveling in Sam’s screams of pain. “I’m going to make you beg!” Dylan shouted over Sam’s cries. “I’m going to make you _beg me to stop!”_

Sam trembled all over, tears streaming down his cheeks as Dylan ramped up his routine, scratching bright red marks all along Sam’s front, drawing blood where he scraped too deep. He held himself up with his palms pressed into the fabric on either side of Sam, leaning his head down and biting into Sam’s collarbone hard enough to draw blood, his hips still working. Sam twisted his head away from Dylan, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to blockade the steady flow of tears from his eyes to no avail. When Dylan finally finished, pulling out and moaning as ropes of milky white cum splattered onto Sam’s abdomen, Sam choked back a small sob and turned his head away. He was trembling all over, blood trickling and pooling on his skin from his open wounds.

          Dylan had the nerve to smile as he tugged his jeans back up. “I’m impressed, Sammy. That was nice.”

          “Go fuck yourself,” Sam spat, his voice shaking too much to sound even remotely threatening. Dylan reached over and cracked him across the jaw.

          “Watch your mouth,” he warned, pulling up his zipper and turning to go.

          “Dylan,” Sam croaked, his voice cracking and his throat dry. He tried to swallow, and his cheeks flushed, already ashamed of what he was about to ask of his tormenter. “Could I at least... get some water? Please?”

          Dylan smiled, baring his white teeth. “Aw, see, Sammy, that’s what I like to hear. Begging, nice and pretty.” He turned and strode up the stairs, returning with a tall glass of water. He held it to Sam’s lips and tilted it. Sam drank greedily, holding his head up and suckling every last drop he could from the edge of the glass. His neck strained to follow the glass when Dylan pulled it away, still thirsty. Dylan patted the top of his head, petting his hair. “See? I’m not entirely heartless, now am I?” Sam didn’t reply, only swallowed, his throat feeling a little less dry, letting his head fall back against the filthy mattress. Dylan leaned down to press a hard kiss to Sam’s lips and pulled away, taking the glass back upstairs and clicking off the light. Darkness cloaked the room, and if Sam had been able to move his arms he wouldn’t have been able to see a hand in front of his face.

          Maybe that was a good thing. Sam lay sprawled on the mattress, naked and still bound by the restraints, dull pain coursing through his body as his mind numbed, his brain refusing to think about what had just happened. _Think about something different,_ his thoughts urged him. _Dean. Think about Dean._ Sam pictured his face, his skin gently freckled and his eyes green and bright, shining as he laughed. His full lips were parted in a smile, just for Sam. Sam closed his eyes and sighed, letting that image flood the rest of his thoughts, and fell asleep dreaming of his brother.


	8. Figure Out What We're Up Against

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Bobby are on a mission: track down Dylan. Meanwhile, Sam is fighting not to lose hope.

        “I told you,” Beth said again, her mouth turned down in a frown. “I have no idea where Dylan took off to. He said he was going to stay at his uncle’s cabin for the rest of break. How in the hell am I supposed to know where his uncle’s cabin is?”

        Dean chuffed angrily, frustrated, and turned away from her, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger. Beth softened a bit and touched his shoulder gently.

        “I’m sorry about Sam,” she said quietly. “He was a really good friend to me, and I…” She trailed off, blinking back tears. She shook herself. “But you have the wrong guy. Dylan wouldn’t do something like that, ever. Sure, he had a bit of a temper and he and Sam had a few fights when they were together, but Dylan wouldn’t do anything more than yell, I swear. He’s really a good guy deep down. He just had a few anger issues, that’s all.”

        Dean turned to face her again, his brow furrowed. “Together? He and Sam were _together?”_

Beth looked surprised, her eyes shifting from Dean to Bobby uncertainly. “Well, yeah. He never told you about him? They weren’t together for very long, not nearly as long as he and Jess were. Only four or five months, really.”

        Dean leaned forward and sat down across from her. “Beth,” he said seriously. “I need you to tell me everything about their relationship.”

        Beth looked at him and crossed her arms. “No. I refuse to let you suspect that Dylan would play a part in this. He’s my friend, and he’s a good guy once you wade past all the grouchiness. Leave him alone. His father was an alcoholic or something. Rough childhood. He’s not like that. I know him. Cut him some slack. You said the receptionist lady said that he came back out just to say goodbye to her, right?” Dean nodded reluctantly, and Beth gestured stubbornly. “Well, was he carrying a body?”

        “No,” Dean growled, leaning forward. “But Sam didn’t get any other visitors that night, and he was discovered missing only an hour or so after that. As much as you want to argue it, Dylan is looking like our prime suspect, okay?”

        Beth hesitated, her features softening as she looked from Dean to Bobby. “Beth,” Bobby said finally. He met Beth’s gaze steadily. “We need you to be honest here. Sam’s life is at stake, alright? Now who was more important to you when Sam attended here—him, or Dylan?”

        Beth bit her lip and looked down uncertainly. Finally, she let out a long breath. “They didn’t have the healthiest relationship, okay?” Her voice was low, and both Dean and Bobby leaned to hear her. “Some nights I remember I could hear Dylan screaming at Sam from halfway across campus. Sam would sometimes stop by my place so we could study together, and he would have bruises on him. He always told me it was okay, he was handling it. One night he came to my door, crying really hard and asking if he could come in, that he needed someplace to escape just for a moment. I just remember that he was so sweet and polite, he thanked me over and over for letting him in and letting him stay. He had all these bruises, and his face was cut open and bleeding and everything. It was really scary. He fell asleep on my couch and the next day me and a couple other friends helped him break up with Dylan. Dylan didn’t take it very lightly, but eventually he got over it and Sam started seeing Jess instead. And then Dylan and I got close, and he told me about how his dad used to beat him and how he worked so hard to get into Stanford so he could get away, and I don’t know, I kind of took him under my wing, okay? His childhood sounded awful and he needed a friend, and then Jess died and Sam left, and Dylan and I got even closer. I helped him get over Sam, I know how he is. He wouldn’t do this, not now. He hasn’t thought about Sam in months.” Beth played with her fingers as she spoke, looking down at her lap. She looked up, and tears sparked her eyes. “Dylan just has a temper problem. I swear. He’s a good guy, he is. He cared about Sam. He cares about—” She stopped, swallowed.

        Dean looked at her. “Beth,” he said slowly. “You’re not currently in a _relationship_ with Dylan… are you?”

        She glanced up at him, then back down at her lap. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Yeah, I am. And sometimes his temper _is_ a little out of control.” She looked back up at him and fixated him with a hard stare. “But that does _not_ mean he’s a kidnapper. I stand by that. Dylan could never do that to anyone, let alone Sam.” She picked up her pen and began scrawling on the papers set out in front of her once again. “If you don’t mind,” she said, louder this time, “I have course work.”

        Dean gave her one last look and stood up, walking briskly away and trying hard not to scream and break something. He ran his fingers through his hair, distressed. Sam had been in an abusive relationship all through college. Sam had been _abused_ in college, and he didn’t even know to what extent. Sam had needed his help, something that Dean had worried about the entire time he was away anyway, and Dean didn’t do a thing to try and find out whether he needed him.

        “Dean.”

        Dean looked up at the furrowed features of Bobby Singer. Bobby was looking down at him, almost looking angry.

        “What?”

        “I know that look of yours, son. Don’t even think about it. Don’t even dare trying to blame yourself here.”

        “I didn’t help him, Bobby,” Dean growled, staring at his shoes and kicking at the gravel.

        “Yeah, and you damn well couldn’t have, anyway. You didn’t even know. College is supposed to be a safe place, someplace with peers and teachers and other help. You couldn’t have known this would happen, so for God’s sake stop worrying about it and concentrate on the task at hand, would you please?” Bobby turned away and headed back to the Impala, leaving a bewildered Dean staring after him, balancing on the line between staying stubborn and admitting defeat. With a loud sigh he realized that although he was angry he couldn’t stop it, Bobby was probably right. He kicked at the gravel one more time to let out a little frustration, then jogged to catch up.

 

        Dean looked up when Bobby approached, leaning against the side of the Impala. Bobby lifted a stack of papers in his hands to show him. “Took a hell of a lot of convincing to get these,” he grumbled. “You owe me, boy.”

        “Understatement,” Dean replied tiredly, taking the stack from Bobby and briefly leafing through them. “Let’s head back to the motel and take a look, so we can spread them out.” Bobby loosened his tie from around his neck and nodded, waiting until the Impala had opened before taking a seat in the passenger seat. On the way back, he flipped through the papers.

        “Dylan Alexander Fredericks,” he read aloud from the top of the page. “Looks like he’s had pretty stellar grades here, almost as good as Sam’s. Head of the track team, teacher’s aide, majoring in political science. Wait,” Bobby said, squinting at one of the pages and pulling it from the stack to examine more carefully. “Huh. Looks like our boy Dylan wasn’t as squeaky clean as he seemed. Says here that he was involved in a fight on school grounds and that he stated in the incident report that he was provoked. I’m willing to bet if he wasn’t as good a student they would have expelled him for sure. Sounds like he did a hell of a lot of pleading to stay.”

        “Wonderful,” Dean muttered. “What was the fight over?”

        Bobby turned the page over. “Someone from the track team apparently had a problem with the way Dylan was leading in practices. He was expelled.”

        “Great. Where did he live on campus?”

        “Looks like he moved out from his dorm a couple years back. Says he currently resides in the apartment complex just outside campus.”

        “Address?”

        Bobby read out the address, and Dean turned the wheel, headed in that direction. He pulled up to the front of the clusters of little apartments, lined up neatly beside each other without touching. “This one,” he said, walking up to the front door of the building whose address matched the one printed on the sheet. “Any roommates?”

        Bobby double-checked. “One, but he was involved in a car accident a couple months ago. He went back home to his parents for the remainder of the semester.”

        “Good,” Dean said, sliding his lock pick into the keyhole. Bobby waited for the click that signaled the door opening, then cocked his gun as quietly as possible, trading a glance with Dean. Dean had his weapon out as well, and carefully, he turned the knob and entered the dark apartment.

        After a thorough search, Dean curled his hands into fists and let out a scream of frustration. _“Where are you, you son of a bitch?!”_ He ran his fingers through his hair and chuffed, glancing around the room, distressed.

        “Dean.”

        Bobby’s voice cut through Dean’s thunderous thought cloud, and Dean turned and looked at him. He was standing beside a small wooden table in the hall, looking intently down at a picture frame. He looked up at Dean when he approached and held it out for him to see. It was a photograph of a young boy sitting on a wooden porch with his arms wrapped around a golden retriever, his face broken out into a wide smile and shining with laughter. A woman stood over them, her hand ruffling his hair and a smile alight on her face, too. The boy was about six or seven in the photograph.

        “What?”

        Dean took the frame from Bobby and slid the photograph out of it, turning it over. Scrawled on the back were simply the words _“Dylan’s first visit to Lenny’s cabin!”_

        “What about it?”

        “Look closer at the background.”

        Dean squinted at the picture. To the far left, just above the woman’s shoulder, a line of blurry numbers sat on the side of the house. “The address,” Dean said as it dawned on him. “You think this is the cabin Beth was talking about?”

        “It’s our best shot,” Bobby answered, taking the picture from him and pocketing it. “Come on.”

        Dean clicked off the light, giving the place one last sweep before closing the door tight.  

 

        A simple Google search later and Bobby had the cabin’s location. “Sales history says the guy who owned it before was named Lenny Fredericks. Sound familiar?”

        “Yeah? What happened to him?”

        “Apparently nothing. He still owns it. Only comes around during the spring to hunt and fish, rents it out during the winter. Leaves it alone for the rest of the year.”

        “It’s fall. So that means it’s empty right now.”  
        “Supposedly.”

        “Wonderful.” Dean cocked his .45 and pulled on his jacket. “Come on, Bobby. Let’s get my little brother back.”

 

        ***

 

        Sam wasn’t sure how long he had been laying there when he heard the door creak open and the unmistakable sound of Dylan’s boots clunk down the stairs. He just knew that he was sore and thirsty and very, very tired. After what he knew had to be at least a night of Lucifer taunting him from the corner, after a night of feeling blood trickle from his various open cuts and feeling his ass burn where he knew the tissue had torn, after a night of praying for either rescue or death.

        He was just so _tired._

Sam didn’t make a sound when Dylan slithered up beside him and positioned his body over Sam’s, didn’t protest when Dylan crouched over him and slipped inside him with some effort, grunting and breathing hard with every thrust, using blood from Sam’s freshly torn inner walls as his only lube. He didn’t complain when he pulled out and fed him his cock, forced him to swallow every last drop of milky white cum that came shooting from it. He only stared up at the ceiling with glazed-over, half-lidded eyes and waited for it to be over.

        Dylan wasn’t oblivious to the lack of protest, and he silently congratulated himself. He’d finally done it. He’d broken Sam Winchester. And to think that only a week ago he’d been trying to force himself to forget about him. Who should show up out of nowhere but his Sam? Dylan hadn’t even given it a second thought and rushed to his uncle’s empty cabin, clicking on the light in the dank basement and setting everything up. “Oh, yes, well, my partner is pretty kinky,” he’d laughed as he stood in line at a shady-looking porn shop just off the outskirts of the city. No questions from the cashier, just a demand for payment. Dylan had used cash.

        And everything had been smooth sailing from there. Dylan couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten when he watched from his truck to see the two brothers get out their car to chase after his buddy Brian, only to come back bloody, landing them directly in the hospital. He wasn’t sure how that’d happened, but he owed Brian a beer or two. Then it was just a matter of getting Sam out of the hospital without being seen.

        And now he had his very own Sam Winchester at his mercy, completely his to do whatever he wanted with. Dylan almost teared up, he was so overjoyed. So overjoyed that this had worked, so thrilled that he had gotten away with this. He could finally let Sam know just how badly he’d been hurting since Sam left, since he left him for _Jessica._ Let Sam know everything he went through since the day he went up and left. But not through words, no; through his own pain, through the very _experience,_ so that he could know exactly how much pain Dylan had felt that day.

        Dylan smiled down at Sam and brushed the back of his fingers over his cheek, feeling the moisture that had leaked from Sam’s eyes. “I’ve been waiting for so long to do this, Sam,” he whispered, barely containing his smile. “I’ve been waiting for the day to come when you break. I thought it would only exist in my fantasies, but now…” He paused, couldn’t stop a wide grin from spreading on his face. “It feels even better than I thought it would.”

        Sam didn’t reply, but his lower lip quivered a bit, and his voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “Why?” he whispered brokenly. “Why would you fantasize about this? I thought—” He stopped, swallowed, his eyes brimming with more tears. “I thought you loved me, back at Stanford. You said you loved me.” His mouth was dry. “I know I loved you.” His voice broke, and he blinked quickly, trying to stop the tears from trailing down his face.

        Dylan stared down at him, his face contorting into something that almost looked like regret. “Sammy, you don’t understand.” He reached up and brushed a lock of Sam’s hair out of his face. “I _did_ love you. I loved you a lot. That’s why I _had_ to hit you, I _had_ to say that stuff to you. I may have loved you, but you still needed to know your place. Don’t you understand?” He leaned down and brushed his lips against Sam’s neck, then pulled back up, his features furrowing. “That’s why I had to take you. Because I loved you, but you hurt me when you left, Sam. A lot. And that’s not something I can just forget about. That’s why I’m doing this, don’t you see? You need to feel the pain that I felt, Sam. You need to know what it felt like to wake up every morning hurting. And if I can’t make you feel it emotionally like I did, I’m more than happy to let you feel it physically instead.” He leaned back down and bit into the soft flesh where Sam’s neck and shoulder met, chewing into the skin there slowly and patiently until he felt the metallic taste of blood fill his mouth. Sam whimpered as Dylan moved to a different part of his body, lower this time, just above his ribs, and began to scrape his teeth slowly against the skin there until he had broken the skin. Over and over Dylan repeated the process, moving over Sam agonizingly slowly until there were gaping wounds scattered all around Sam’s front and Dylan’s teeth were tinted red.

        Sam’s stomach turned as Dylan got close to his face, so that Sam could see every shine in the stains of blood dripping from Dylan’s teeth. “Do you feel that, Sam?” Dylan licked his lips. “I bet it hurts.” Dylan reached up and wiped the back of his hand against his lips, looking down at the red stain it left on his skin. He sighed loudly and shifted so he was perched on the edge of the mattress, his arms crossed over each other and resting on his knees. “You know, Sam,” he sighed, looking away from him. “I’m not stupid. I know what I’m doing, and I know how the authorities feel about it.” He glanced down at him, a look of sadness flickering across his features so briefly that Sam wasn’t sure if he imagined it or not. “I know that I’ll probably end up in jail for this if they find out, you know? I don’t really want to go to jail. Would you want to go to jail, Sammy?”

        Sam swallowed, his neck muscles working, not sure where this was going. Dylan sighed again. “So I mean, it’s nothing personal to you or anything, you know? But I’m afraid that I just can’t let you leave here alive, Sammy. You know who I am, you know my face. I don’t really want to be sought after for the rest of my days, you know?” Sam’s heart started thumping and tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

        Dylan stood, stretching and cracking his back. “Not yet though,” he said, moving his head so his neck cracked. “I’m not quite done venting my feelings with you. I think I’ll keep you around for a little longer, just until I feel like I’ve gotten closure. Sorry, Sammy, but I wouldn’t kill you unless it was necessary.” He leaned down and gave Sam a hard pat on the head and brushed himself off, his boots clunking on the stairs until the sound had completely faded, leaving Sam alone in silence.

        Sam pulled at his chain, his arm muscles becoming more outlined as he struggled to break the metal. His body was weak from neglect, however, and it wasn’t long before Sam was completely exhausted. He let his head fall back on the mattress and closed his eyes, trying not to think. Somewhere in the back of his mind, however, he wasn’t afraid. _This will be over before you know it,_ a little voice promised him. _Maybe death will be a good thing._

 _No,_ Sam told it fiercely. _Dean is out there. I can’t leave my brother._

_Dean would be alright._

“No.”

_Sure he would._

“He loves me.”

_Not as much as you think._

“Shut up.”

“You shouldn’t talk to yourself, Sammy,” Lucifer called. Sam twisted his head around and glanced at him, sitting smugly on the nearby table and picking his fingernails with a pocketknife. “People will think you’re crazy.” He laughed, a long, cruel sound that vibrated off the walls and left Sam with chills running up his spine. He stabbed the knife downwards, embedding it into the soft wood of the table and laughed again, long and loud, and Sam clenched his teeth together and sobbed out loud, shutting his eyes and letting the despair wash over him like a flood, dropping the fight.

Maybe it was the dehydration messing with his mind. But suddenly Sam’s hopelessness was the best thing he’d felt in weeks. The despair threatened to consume him, but in that moment, he could have sworn he felt the tiniest hint of relief mixed in the flood.

_Give up, Sammy. Give up._


	9. It's Gonna Be Okay, Sammy, I Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally rescues Sam.

        The drive to the cabin took too long. Much, much too long. Dean stared straight ahead for the entire drive there, his features hard and determined. The passenger seat was empty. Bobby had stayed behind.

        “Look, son, I don’t know what kind of state Sam will be in,” Bobby had said slowly. “I don’t want to think about how messed up he might be. A vengeful ex-boyfriend? He’s going to have been through a lot. And I love that boy, but I think it’d be best not to overwhelm him. I know he trusts you more than anyone.”

        So that was why Dean had strapped himself into his baby and driven off alone, with a destination in mind and a stony heart to get him through it. It was nightfall by the time he turned onto the street, and he turned off the car. The porch looked like the same one in the picture, but much older and more rotted. The paint was peeling off the sides of the house and in the light of the moon it looked downright abandoned.

        Dean leaned down and picked up his .45 from where it lay under the passenger seat, slipping it into the back of his jeans and smoothing his jacket over it so it was hidden. He started to walk towards the house, then paused and grabbed a small, sharp knife and stuck it next to the gun, just in case. He shook out the collar of his jacket and walked towards the front door, his strides long and purposeful. When he reached the door, he considered knocking, just in case. Then he lifted his foot and kicked in the door anyway.

        The house was dark and it smelled musty. Someone had clearly not been taking care of it for a couple months. Dean stepped over the rug and closed the door behind him, taking slow, precise steps into the house. He ran a finger over a table in the corner; it was thick with dust. Dean kept going.

        Near the end of the hall were two doors directly across from each other. Dean walked over to them and reached a hand out to turn the knob of the left one when something made him stop.

        A small noise.

        Dean wasn’t even sure if he’d really heard it or if his imagination was playing tricks on him. But it had sounded like it came from the door to the right. It had sounded like a whimper.

        It had sounded like Sammy.

        Heart beating, Dean tried the knob. It was locked. He cursed under his breath and pulled out his lock pick, getting to work to unlock it until it opened with a quiet click. Dean peered down at what looked like a spiraling set of creaky wood stairs. A faint light, so faint that Dean might have missed it, traced the edge of the farthest step he could see. Dean pulled his gun from his waistband and cocked it as quietly as he could before beginning his descent down the stairs, cringing every time the wood squeaked.

 

 

        Sam was tired, and that was an understatement. His eyelids were heavy, and he had finally let them droop. He tried to sleep, but evidently his brain wouldn’t have that. The collar dug into the back of his neck, rubbing against the skin and making it impossible for him to relax. He could rest the back of his head down, but his neck wouldn’t follow, and he could slowly feel it cramping.

        When he heard the squeak of the stairs, he didn’t open his eyes. He had half a hope that it was Dylan coming to kill him, but something wasn’t right. Dylan was loud and obvious, liked to see Sam flinch at the sound of his boots, reveled in the fear that his arrival meant for Sam. Maybe this time he was changing it up. Well, he could go ahead and change it all he wanted. This time, Sam wasn’t going to flinch. He wouldn’t even open his eyes. He was just too tired to.

 

       

        The light grew a little brighter as Dean made his way down the stairs, but not by much. Dean kept his gun positioned at his side, both hands around the handle, ready to lift and use. His heart thumped as the corners of the room came into view, and he stepped down onto the cold concrete floor of some kind of basement. He glanced at the peeling walls, but his gaze soon fell upon the horror that sat in the very middle of the basement.

        “Oh, my god.” Dean’s voice cracked and he stuffed the gun into his waistband. He was next to Sam in two steps. “Sam.”

        The longer Dean looked at him the worse he appeared. Sam’s eyes were closed and his arms were stretched up above his head, his wrists secured to the floor. The same was true of his ankles. There was a rough-looking collar wrapped around his throat, attached to a leash that led up to the ceiling and back down again. He was completely bare except for a lump of cloth near his ankles that looked like it had once been a pair of jeans before someone had attempted to cut them away. Evidently they had given up halfway through. Lacerations covered every inch of Sam’s body, open cuts still leaking thin trails of blood and bruises dotting his front. Dean swallowed hard. Sam’s ribs were perfectly outlined, the bones of his hips jutting out from where the skin stretched tight over them. He was clearly underfed.

        “Sammy,” Dean whispered. He squatted and put two fingers to his neck—there was a pulse. His hope leapt. “Sammy, open your eyes. Please, Sammy, please open your eyes…”

 

        Sam knew that voice. His brain warned him that it was a trick; his eyes wanted to see for themselves. They fluttered open, and Sam gazed up at the blurry figure that had the voice of his brother.

        “Sam,” Dean breathed, clearly relieved.

        “Dean?” Sam’s voice was hoarse and barely audible, his throat dry and his lips cracked.

        “Shh. Don’t try to talk, okay? I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.” He wiggled the knife underneath the fabric of Sam’s collar and began to saw back and forth, the sharp blade cutting easily into the nylon until he was able to pull the constricting strip of material away from Sam’s throat. Sam’s head lolled to one side and his eyelids drooped. Dean bit back tears as he gazed down at his broken brother, reaching down to stroke back Sam’s hair with gentle fingers.

        “I’m so sorry,” Dean whispered to him, his voice cracking. “I’m so, so sorry I let this happen to you, Sammy.” He glanced around the room again, his eyes settling on the hook by the stairs with a ring of keys hanging off it. He stood up, striding over to them and retrieving them. He squatted down, the keys jingling in his hands as he prayed that Dylan was cocky enough to leave the keys to Sam’s cuffs lying around. “It’s going to be okay, Sammy,” he murmured to his brother, reaching down to brush back a lock of Sam’s hair. A thud made him freeze.

        Sam’s eyes snapped open and his head whipped around, staring intently at the stairs, his eyes suddenly wide and fearful. “Dean,” he whispered frantically. “Dean, you need to get out of here. He’s back.”

        The sound of boots thumping above them got louder, the door creaking as it opened. Sam stared at Dean with frightened eyes. “Dean,” he pleaded. “Please. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

        Dean’s expression read loud and clear: he wasn’t going to leave without his little brother. He stood up, palming his knife in his hand and waited.

 

        Dylan had figured he had a good two or three days left before he would be forced to kill Sam. He didn’t want the authorities on his ass, and besides, he knew he was taking a risk leaving. He’d discovered the missing person’s report had been filed and knew that his absence would be suspicious. Still, he figured that nobody knew where his uncle’s cabin was anyway, at least nobody who was interested in the case. “Sam!” he called out, a grin beginning to form on his face. He stepped down into the basement, the sole of his boot connecting with the concrete floor with a dull thump. The grin quickly faded from his face when he saw that Sam was not alone.

        “You,” Dean growled, and was immediately in front of him. Before Dylan could process what was happening, Dean had slugged him in the face. Dylan stumbled back a few steps, pressing his hand to his cheek. Fury coursed through him like a flood, and he looked up at his attacker. A look of understanding suddenly formed over his features and he straightened up, a sly grin slithering over his face.

        “Ah, yes. I was surprised I hadn’t seen you sooner, Dean.”

        “Shut the fuck up,” Dean snarled, his hands clenched into fists.

        “Bet you’re pretty pissed, huh? Seeing your brother in his deserved state?”

        _“He doesn’t deserve this you fucking bastard!”_ Dean lunged at Dylan and had his hands around his throat in a heartbeat, squeezing mercilessly. Dylan choked.

        “Go ahead,” he gasped, clawing at his hands and his face turning a deep shade of crimson-purple. “You’re no better than I am.”

        Dean glared down at him and continued to squeeze for a moment longer before letting go and standing. He didn’t say anything, only lifted his leg and gave Dylan a hard kick across the face. Dylan’s head lolled to one side and he stilled. Dean stared down at him, his hands balled into fists and his teeth grinding against each other, contemplating.

        “Dean,” Sam called hoarsely, lifting his head up. “Dean, no. Leave him. Please.” Talking was clearly sapping at his strength and his head dropped back down, his eyes fluttering closed. His breathing was shallow. Dean glanced uncertainly from his brother to his attacker, torn between wanting to kill the bastard and needing to save his brother. Finally Dean stepped over the unconscious form of Dylan, retrieving the ring of keys from where they fell to the floor and crouched over Sam, wiggling the key in the lock until the cuffs sprang open. He moved down and repeated the process on his ankle cuffs.

        “It’s okay, Sammy. I got you,” he murmured as he worked, his breath hot over Sam’s exposed skin. Sam trembled as he struggled to sit up, his elbows sliding from underneath him. “Wait, Sammy, let me help you.” Dean slipped his arm around his middle, trying his best not to touch any of Sam’s open wounds, gripping his waist tight and slinging Sam’s arm over his shoulder. “Slowly now, that’s it,” Dean coaxed him encouragingly, standing with him, supporting him as he leaned on Dean heavily. “That’s it. Come on, Sammy, we’re going to get you out of here, okay? It’s all gonna be okay. I promise.”

        Sam’s jaw hung slack and his eyes were glazed-over and half-lidded. He was clearly on the brink of passing out. But he stood on shaky legs anyway, forcing him to take one unsteady step forward after another, his bare feet slapping the hard ground. He tried, he really did, but eventually he simply couldn’t, and his knees buckled from underneath him.

        Dean cursed as he caught him with gentle arms. At this rate they wouldn’t be out of the house for another month. With a determined grunt, Dean bent down and scooped up Sam’s legs, cradling him in his arms despite his muffled protests. Sam’s head rested on his shoulder and his fingers weakly wrapped in the material of Dean’s t-shirt, clinging to him, and Dean swallowed hard as he looked down at his baby brother, so clearly worn out and abused. “Alright, Sammy,” he told him gently. “Let’s get you someplace safe.” With a new vigor, Dean strode up the stairs, holding his brother tight into his chest and was out of the house as quickly as he could manage. He unlocked the Impala and settled Sam into the passenger seat, draping his jacket over Sam’s middle so he was partly covered, and started the car, leaving dust ballooning behind them as he sped away from the house with his baby brother half-awake beside him, and hating himself for ever letting Sam out of his sight in the first place.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean head back to their motel to think.

            There’s a funny thing to be said about love. Well, there are plenty of funny things to be said about love, and none of them have a real definition. Love is a difficult concept to wrap your mind around, after all, and quite a spectacular one at that. To feel so powerfully for another being, to be willing to go against every survival instinct built into you in order to protect that person, is incredible. Why create it? Why not continue with our little circle of survival and instinct, free of complexities and complications? Why throw in feelings that strong?

            Dean Winchester doesn’t do a lot of thinking about love. He was trained into the business of the fight, and to him, love is equal to vulnerability, and vulnerability means exposure of his weaknesses, and that means defeat. And Dean Winchester doesn’t admit defeat.

            That was why when his out-of-control emotions hit him in a whirlwind flood of concern and frustrated and _love,_ he was left confused and anxious as he laid Sam on the creaky bed in the motel, wincing when Sam made a small noise of pain, and began to examine the extent of his injuries. That was why he felt a new flash of guilt with every cut that he discovered on Sam’s body, every trickling drip of blood. The long lacerations sliced into his chest and back from the leather strips of a whip, the purple-black bruising decorating his hips, the painful rawness of his wrists and ankles from being locked down with too-tight cuffs for too long, the angry red burns that wrapped around his throat from the fabric of a collar meant only for dogs—the longer Dean looked at Sam the worse he appeared, and it was all Dean’s fault. Dean bit his lip as he ran gentle fingers all along Sam’s body, patching up every open wound and cleaning up every trail of blood, dried or fresh, that had spilled from his cuts, his brow furrowed in concentration and his mind cursing him loudly for letting this happen to his baby brother.

            Sam’s head was lolled to one side, his eyes glazed over and only half awake. “No hospital,” he’d managed to croak, and Dean had entirely agreed; no need to go through that again. Hospitals were officially out of the Winchester agenda.

            The only thing Dean wanted was to hold Sam, to cradle his head in his arms and kiss him, tell him everything was going to be okay, he was going to take care of him. But Dean had seen his share of television. He knew that horrible, awful things had happened to Sam, and it was likely that he would never want someone else to come near him for some time—maybe even the rest of his life. Dean had to swallow past a lump in his throat when he realized that Sam might never want his brother to touch him ever again.

            It was slow work, but eventually, Dean had used every last scrap of bandage he had, and Sam had drifted off to sleep. Dean wiped his hands off with a clean cloth—his fingers were streaked with Sam’s blood—and looked down at his brother’s sleeping form, absently stroking the back of his fingers against the smooth skin of Sam’s forearm, staying that way for awhile, just gazing at his beautiful broken brother. After some time, against his better judgment and with some hesitation, he brushed back a lock of Sam’s hair, leaning down and pressing his lips to his forehead, tears welling up in his eyes.

            “I’m so sorry, Sam,” he whispered, his voice cracking. A salty drop fell from his eye and splashed onto the bridge of Sam’s nose. Dean’s lower lip wobbled as his mind flashed images of Sam in that basement, his eyes flicking over Sam’s various injuries, and Dean actually winced as his heart sank even further as he reflected on it, actually felt the regret on a level so deep that it hurt his chest. “Sammy… I never should have let you out of my sight… I’m so sorry, baby.”

            Sam groaned softly, his arm flopping to the side as he stirred and absently tried to reach for his brother, out of habit. One of his eyes peeked open and he gazed at Dean through his lashes. “Dean,” he whispered hoarsely, his mouth dry. He winced as pain shot through him, but the corners of his mouth lifted anyway and his lips cracked as he gave Dean a small smile. Dean’s heart skipped a beat. Sam’s voice, past the obvious pain that came with speaking, managed to sound faintly amused. “Dean, did you just call me baby?”

            Dean’s cheeks flushed pink and he lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, unsure what to say. “Um,” he managed, chuckling uncertainly and looking down at his lap, his hand swiping across his face to brush away any wetness. Sam’s palm fell across Dean’s wrist and held on with the force of a butterfly. A soft smile remained on his lips.

            “Like it,” he murmured, his eyes fluttering closed again and letting out a soft breath. Dean breathed a sigh of relief and clasped Sam’s palm in his, bringing their combined hands up to his lips and holding it there.

“Dean.” Sam spoke with his eyes closed. His features were tensed. “What now?”

“What do you mean?”

Sam cracked his eyelids open and looked at him. “I mean, what’s going to happen now?”

            Dean held Sam’s hand tighter in his own and exhaled, his moist breath warming the back of Sam’s hand. “I don’t know, Sammy,” he admitted ruefully. He resisted pulling Sam up against his chest. Instead he let go of Sam’s hand and pressed his palms into his lap, his hands balled into fists and his arms doggedly pressed to his sides as he struggled with his flurrying emotional turmoil not to touch his brother. He didn’t want to scar Sam any further than he already was.

 

Sam noticed Dean suppressing his touch and he blinked, confused. Why didn’t Dean want to touch him?

 _You’re filthy, that’s why,_ a voice hissed in his mind. _He knows, Dean found out, he knows what a little whore you were. You’re tainted._

Sam visibly flinched and swallowed, his throat muscles working as he stared at Dean’s hands clasped in his lap and tried not to let his hurt show.

Silence stretched between the two brothers until Dean stood up and cleared his throat. “I’m, uh,” he said, gesturing to the door uncertainly, not sure if he should leave Sam. “I’m gonna get a soda, you know, from the machine outside, if that’s alright with you.”

Sam nodded and shifted on the bed, wincing as he rolled onto his side. He stared down at the faded stripes decorating the linen bed sheets, one arm tucked underneath his pillow, forcing himself not to think about Dylan. Was he alive? Was he angry? Was he going to come back for Sam?

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to forget about him. _Think about Dean._

Dean. Appearing at the foot of the creaky winding stairs. Dean, slugging Dylan hard in the face. Dean, undoing his handcuffs. Dean, not wanting to leave Dylan alive.

 _Stop it._ Sam clenched his jaw and curled a little tighter in on himself. He felt so dirty, unclean.

Filthy whore.

He felt his eyes sting and he buried his face in the pillow, pulling the blanket tighter around him. _Not enough, not enough, he was still exposed, the air was still cold on his bare skin, he was still naked, humiliated for everyone to gawk at, for everyone to judge…_

He brought his hand up to his mouth and bit down hard on his index finger, letting the pain from the bite wash over him, distract him. He tasted blood and a strange feeling of relief flooded through him. Confused at the sudden sensation, he let up the pressure just a bit, but that made the cut sting more. Relief stabbed him, and confused as he was, he let out a shaky breath and accepted it. It felt good. He sank his teeth back into his finger.

 

Dean took a long drink from his soda and stared at the ground without seeing it. He felt like he had aged a thousand years.

_What’s going to happen now?_

Dean didn’t have a clue what to do next. Take Sammy to another hospital? No way. Dean threw his soda can in the trashcan nearby and pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes, suppressing the urge to scream in frustration. What the hell was supposed to happen now?

He ran his hand through his hair and pushed off the wall he was leaning on, turning and going back into their room. “So listen,” he said as he walked through the door, “I was thinking maybe we could head up to Bobby’s, take a few weeks off, get back on—Sam?”

He strode over to Sam, who was wrapped tightly in blankets and visibly shaking, chewing on his hand. “Sam!”

Sam jerked up, yanking his hand from his mouth and staring at Dean. “What? What happened?”

Dean sat down on the edge of the bed. “Let me see your hand.”

Sam’s stomach twisted coldly, and suddenly he knew not to let Dean see. “No.”

“Let me see it, Sammy.”

“No.” Sam tucked it underneath the blanket, and Dean frowned at him.

“Why not?”

“Why do you need to see it?”

“Why won’t you let me?”

Sam pressed his lips together in a hard line as Dean reached under the blanket and grabbed his wrist, pulling it up so that he could see it. Purple-black teeth marks dotted Sam’s index finger, and the skin had just started to break. Tiny droplets of blood beaded at the small tear in the skin. Dean looked at it, then looked at Sam.

“Why’d you do that?”

“I just got a little distracted,” Sam snapped, pulling his hand back and cradling it. “It’s not a big deal.”

Dean just looked at him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, but to Sam’s relief he didn’t press the issue. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Well, like I was saying, I think we should head up to Bobby’s for a few. Clear our heads, see how you’re feeling in a couple weeks.”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

Dean gave him a skeptic look. “Sure, Sam. Humor me, okay?”

Sam dropped his gaze down to his lap. He didn’t want to do this to Dean, tie him down like this, but he couldn’t think what to do otherwise. “Alright,” he said finally.

“Good. I’ll go start the car. Do you need some help walking?"

"No," Sam said immediately. "No, I can walk."

"Alright. Come on out when you’re ready then.” Dean picked up the keys from their place on the counter and jingled them, turning and heading out the door. Sam looked around, and after a minute, got up and joined him, clicking off the light behind him.


	11. You're Breaking, Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam can't seem to get a grip on things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers!  
> I am so, SO sorry about the lack of updates!! This chapter took awhile to finish, no doubt, but it's here finally, and it's nice and long, just for all you beauties! Also, just to give you all a fair warning, next month is NaNoWriMo, and I will be participating in it, so I would not expect any further updates to this story until after November (and even afterwards it might take me a little time to get back into the swing of things.) But thank you so much for sticking around, and hopefully I will be able to get things up and running again after November!
> 
>  
> 
> NOTE: This chapter does mention self-harm. I am in no way, shape, or form promoting ANY kind of self harm, and if you do struggle with self harm issues I don't mean to offend in any way, and I strongly urge you to get help. If this topic makes you uncomfortable, here is your warning to turn back.

Bobby greeted the boys warmly when they stepped through the door. “How are you feeling, Sam?” he said, clapping Sam lightly on the back. Sam flinched at the unexpected touch, and Bobby withdrew his hand quickly. He and Dean shared a look, and Dean felt a stab of disappointment when he realized that his suspicions were correct: his brother was not going to respond well to touches. Not anytime soon anyway, if ever again. He had been prepared for it, but it was still a blow nonetheless.

“Well, come on in, boys. Are you hungry?”

“Starved,” Dean replied. He looked at Sam. Sam ducked his head when Dean didn’t look away and shook his head jerkily.

“I’m okay. Thanks.” Dean and Bobby shared another look, but Dean didn’t press the matter.

“Alright. How about we just get you to bed, huh, Sam?” Sam didn’t reply, but allowed himself to be led up the stairs to the bedroom that he and Dean shared when they were kids, not failing to notice with a pang that Dean’s hand hovered over the small of his back, not making contact. _Filthy._

Dean took care not to jostle Sam as he laid down in the queen-sized bed they shared when they were young, fluffing the pillow for him and pulling the sheets up to his chin. Sam’s eyelids fluttered; it had been a long trip and he hadn’t slept the whole car ride. Dean reached to stroke his face, but he pulled away, the image of Sam’s flinch at the front door flashing in his mind. He clenched his hand in a fist instead and smiled softly down at his brother. “Can I get you anything, Sam? Water? Another pillow?”

_A hug?_ Sam thought, but then pushed the thought out of his mind. _You’re tainted, remember? Keep Dean clean._ “No, thanks.” He swallowed, his hair falling in his eyes as he turned over. Dean stood over him, watching his little brother’s middle rise and fall as he breathed. Eventually Sam’s breathing steadied, and Dean knew that he was asleep. He was grateful, too; sleep was something his brother desperately needed, that much was clear. He watched him for a minute, not failing to notice how tense Sam’s facial features remained even in sleep. He resisted the urge to brush his hair out of his eyes, then sighed and trudged downstairs.

He accepted the drink that Bobby held out to him gratefully. “Thanks.”

Bobby took a swallow of his own drink. “So,” he said, the silence stretching between them. His tone was serious. “How is he? What happened? Are you boys alright?”

Dean briefly described his encounter in the basement, his voice laced with bitter regret when he told Bobby about leaving Dylan alive. “Sam asked me not to kill him,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Sam… he’s just too forgiving for his own good, Bobby. He was...” Dean shook his head, and took a drink, his eyes falling to the floor as he swallowed past the lump in his throat. “He was bad, Bobby. I mean real bad. The things that must have happened to him down there…” He didn’t finish his sentence, and Bobby nodded solemnly, the lines on his face deep, making him look a hundred years older. He and Dean stood in the kitchen in silence, refilling their tumblers when they emptied, not knowing what to say and hardly caring.

“At least he’s sleeping,” Bobby offered. Dean shrugged.

“I guess so.” He was silent, and rolled his wrist so the thin layer of whiskey left at the bottom of the tumbler sloshed. “Bobby, what if he’s never the same again?” His piercing green eyes were somber, his brow furrowed with genuine anxiety. “What if this messed him up so bad that he won’t ever be… Sam again?”

Bobby lifted his arm and clasped Dean’s shoulder. “Dean. Come on, now. This is Sam we’re talking about. You know he always bounces back, no matter what. You’re his brother. He loves you. He’s going to be a bit shaken by this, of course he is, but we’re going to get through it. As long as you’re there for him, as long as you let him know that you aren’t going to leave him, it’s going to be fine. You’ll see. Just take care of him, like you’ve always done. Sam will be fine.”

Dean looked at him gratefully and opened his mouth to say something in return, but he was cut off by a long, drawn-out scream of terror echoing from upstairs. Looking stricken, he bolted out of the kitchen and was at Sam’s side in a flash.

Sam was lying flat on his back, but his spine was arched painfully, his fingers clawing at the bed sheets desperately. His eyes were open, staring without seeing, as another scream ripped from his body, and Dean knew that he was trapped in his own head as his nightmare consumed him.

“Sam. Sammy. God. Sammy, wake up, please, wake up!” Dean’s hands fluttered over Sam’s body without touching him, unwilling for fear that any contact would just worsen the nightmare. Dean made a low frustrated noise and pushed that idea out of his head. He needed to wake Sam up. He couldn’t let him linger in his own head like this. He leaned over him and ran his hands over Sam’s face, brushing his hair back. “Sammy, please wake up, please wake up, please, God, wake up,” he murmured desperately. Sam’s skin was smooth against the pads of his fingers. “Please, Sammy.”

With a sharp gasp, Sam started, the scream catching in his throat and replaced by heavy, heaving breaths as he was jerked out of sleep. His fingers fisted in Dean’s shirt blindly and he burrowed his head into Dean’s chest, his shoulders shaking violently as tears spilled over his eyes. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, his heart thumping loudly, and held him, holding his head against his chest and gently stroking Sam’s hair until he stopped shaking. “It’s okay, Sammy,” he whispered to him, rocking him back and forth. “I got you. It’s going to be alright.”

_Dylan’s cold laugh bouncing off the concrete walls of his confinement, the open cuts burning on his skin in too many places to count, as he felt a hot warmth trickle down his inner thighs and Dylan pulled out. “You should see yourself, princess,” he guffawed, and there was a rustling sound as he tucked himself away. “It’s glorious. Even better than when you were slutting around with me willingly, back in school.” He flipped Sam over and punched him hard across the face, adding another open cut to the growing number on his abused body. Sam wondered how long it took a person to die by bleeding out. Not quick enough._

Dean held Sam’s head firmly against his chest, rocking him back and forth, running his hand over his hair soothingly. “It’s okay, baby boy,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the top of Sam’s head. “I got you. It’s okay. It’s all going to be fine. Don’t worry, Sammy, I got you. I’m gonna protect you, okay?” He tightened his hold on his brother, rocking him soothingly, petting the back of his hair and pretending he couldn’t feel the wetness soaking through his T-shirt where Sam pressed his face.

Eventually Sam calmed, letting out a long, shuddery breath and releasing his death grip on the fabric of Dean’s shirt. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he murmured when he could speak, pulling his head away from Dean’s chest and tucking it under his shoulders. He buried his face in his hands, feeling the shame pour over him. God, he couldn’t even keep his dreams in check. Dean, alarmed at that statement, drew back from his brother, his eyes concerned.

“Sam, what are you talking about? Sorry about what?” Sam shook his head jerkily, not speaking or looking at his brother. “Hey. Look at me.” Sam kept his eyes trained on the floor, standing up and walking out of the room, his legs a bit unsteady. Dean stood up and jogged after him. “Sam? Sam, you’re still hurt, where are you going?”

“Walk,” Sam said shakily. He padded downstairs, snatching his jacket off the chair, bumping into the doorframe on his way out. The door shut behind him and Dean cursed, running a hand through his hair. Should he follow him? Maybe he needs fresh air, alone time?

Bobby leaned against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles, and let out a long sigh. “Maybe he just needs some time to think,” he said aloud. Dean paced, walking towards the door and then turning away at the last minute. His face was more deeply lined as his brain turned around on itself, flooding with inner turmoil. He walked over to the window to watch Sam stumble across the salvage yard, one hand shoved into his pocket and the other rubbing his eyes. He didn’t let his gaze linger from his broken brother staggering across the salvage lot. If his brother was going to go anywhere, Dean was going to follow him.

 

Sam clutched at his head, his feet feeling too heavy in his shoes and his fingers shaking slightly. Dylan’s sneering face flashed in front of his eyes and his stomach twisted coldly. Sam let out a low groan and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, running his fingers back through his hair and pushing his bangs out of his face.

“Well heya, Sam!”

Sam jerked up and spun around, his face going ashen. Lucifer leaned against the nearest junker parked in the lot, his arms crossed across his chest and a big grin slapped across his face. “And how is my favorite Winchester today?”

Sam fought the urge to vomit as he turned his back to him and walked in the other direction. He didn’t get far before Lucifer appeared in his line of vision once more, this time with a look of mock hurt laden in his features. “Aw, Sammy, don’t be like that. Don’t you remember the fun that we had together?” And a sickly sweet grin spread across his face, and his features morphed, bubbling and twisting until another familiar face stood in front of Sam, one that looked identical to the very person he had just escaped. Dylan—or what looked like Dylan—grinned at him and advanced a step forward towards him. “Don’t you remember everything we did together?”

Sam let out a choked sob, his eyes widening, and he stumbled backwards, his shoes catching on each other and kicking dirt up so it clouded around his feet. “What, now you don’t want to talk, Sam? Finally realizing that your filthy whore mouth is only good for one thing, and it’s not words?”

“Leave me alone.” Tears spilled over Sam’s eyes and he backed up a few more steps before tripping over himself and losing his balance, landing hard on his rear and letting out a short cry of pain as a sharp burn shot through him; he hadn’t fully healed, if he’d healed at all. Lucifer—Dylan—clucked, an eerily familiar sound, and Sam’s heartbeat sped up, his mind flashing to his time in the basement and the mock concern that Dylan would express. Lucifer’s face morphed back into his own and he stood over Sam as Sam struggled not to break down, covering his face in his hands. Lucifer crossed his arms and shook his head. “Poor Sammy,” he sighed, reaching down and petting Sam’s head. Sam flinched at the touch but didn’t look up, beginning to slowly rock back and forth on the ground with his face still covered with his hands.

“Go away,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Go away go away go away.”

 

Dean’s shoulder was pressed against the wall next to the window and his ankles were crossed over each other as he peered out into the salvage yard. He watched Sam stumble and let out a soft curse under his breath as Sam fell hard. He pushed off the wall and headed outside towards his brother.

“Sam,” he called, approaching Sam’s trembling form on the ground. “Come on, Sammy. Come back inside.” He reached down and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Sam flinched violently away from Dean’s touch and Dean jerked his hand away like Sam’s shoulder was burning hot. “Sam?”

Sam’s eyes flicked up to Dean’s face from behind his arms, wide and terrified. Dean crouched down to Sam’s level and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Sam. Woah. Sam. Calm down baby boy, I’m not here to hurt you.”

Sam’s eyes searched Dean’s and then his face twisted, contorted, and he sobbed out loud, burying his face into his arms. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he hiccupped, his voice muffled by his sleeves. He sounded so young. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Dean’s heart broke. “Sammy. Hey. Don’t apologize.” He reached out and placed his hand on Sam’s back. Sam jerked away suddenly, scrambling to his feet and backing up, away from Dean’s touch, shaking his head back and forth. His eyes were wide and he slipped a bit as he backed away.

“No, no, Dean, don’t touch me, don’t touch me, I’m not clean, don’t touch—” Sam’s back hit the side of a rusted truck and he jumped, whipping his head around to see what stopped him, and his own reflection peered back at him from the dirtied window of the truck. His eyes were wide and scared, and he swallowed as he tried to recognize himself. His hair was mussed and his eyes were bloodshot. He tried to remember the last time he really looked in the mirror. How long had he looked like that?

Dean tried not to feel too hurt that Sam had jumped away from his touch. Why had he said he wasn’t clean? Dean stood up slowly, watching Sam’s back as he suddenly seemed immersed in his reflection in the truck window. He didn’t want to startle him. “Sam?”

Sam didn’t answer, only peered more intently at his own face without moving. Dean opened his mouth to say something, anything, when Sam jerked away from the truck with a short gasp, whipping around and staring, wide-eyed and terrified, at something Dean couldn’t see. On instinct Dean’s heart sped up, and he quickly scanned the area for any immediate threats, his heart sinking when he saw none. He knew that Sam was seeing Lucifer.

“Okay, Sam, okay…” Dean held out his hands, palms outward, and took a gentle step forward, no sudden movements. “Hey. Sammy. Look at me. Look at me, okay?” Sam’s eyes flicked between Dean and something just behind him, still wide. Dean moved slowly. Sam shifted a bit, still staring behind Dean, but his head cocked a little at Dean’s voice. “Hey. Sammy. It’s okay, y’hear?” Dean laid a gentle hand on Sam’s, and Sam flinched a little, glancing down at Dean’s fingers folded over his. “There you go. What do you say we head back inside, huh, baby boy?” Sam looked at him, his lower lip wobbling and his eyes sparkling with unshed tears, but he nodded. “Alright. Come on, now. Can I touch you? Your back?” Sam stared hard at the ground and didn’t respond. A little disappointed, Dean moved his hand so it hovered over the small of Sam’s back without making contact and guided him back towards the house at the other end of the salvage lot.

When they stepped foot over the doorway, Sam’s tears spilled over, and he wrenched himself away from Dean, tearing his hand from Dean’s grip and bolting up the stairs, tear tracks glittering ashamedly on his cheeks. He slammed the door of the room he stayed in at Bobby’s, and Dean scrubbed his face with the heels of his hands, letting out a long sigh. He made his way to the kitchen and poured himself a shot.

 

In his room, Sam paced, trying to swallow back the sobs that threatened to burst from him, angrily swiping the tears from his face. Goddammit he was a Winchester, not some spoiled-soft boy with a white picket fence and a mother to cry to. He shouldn’t be breaking down over a goddamn _human being._

“Hey there, buddy!”

Sam whirled around, not surprised to see Lucifer with his cheeky grin waggling his fingers at him, and he couldn’t take it. He let out a small, strangled yell and fell to his knees in front of his duffel bag, fumbling with the zipper and accidentally tearing the material in his haste. He rummaged through it, flinching at every sound the devil made behind him, and pulled out his hunting knife, shiny and silver, and sharp as all hell. He stood up on shaky legs, gripping the handle, and faced the devil.

“Fuck you,” he spat, his voice trembling, and he raised the knife, pulling back his sleeve and slicing a long, shallow cut across his forearm. Lucifer’s grin fell and he flickered, shock crossing his face, and with another shallow cut he disappeared. Sam dropped the knife, his fingers shaking and his heart pounding too loud in his chest, staring around the room disbelievingly. He was vaguely aware of the sting in his arm, and he lifted it to inspect the two slices now decorating his skin. They were oozing droplets of blood, and as Sam watched, a thin line of crimson slid down the side of his wrist. His hands shook as he went to the bathroom to wash his arm, suddenly aware of this new power and how suddenly good it felt to finally feel in control.


End file.
